SUPERWHOLOCK: Eye of the Storm
by FossiliZed
Summary: The Winchesters travel to England to find a hunter who vanished. When they're forced into an uneasy alliance with the famous Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and an alien with a tense relationship with Castiel, they discover something that can only lead to destruction. Despite their numbers, their new team might not be up to the task... [Un-beta'd]
1. The Girl With The Ring

**Disclaimer:** All characters belong to their respected owners, except the ones I've created for the purpose of the plot.

**A.N: **For Supernatural, this is a slight AU that takes place at the beginning of Season 8. It doesn't interfere that much with the plot of the seasons, but diverts from them. It's a like a lost episode. For Sherlock, this takes place after series 3. For Doctor Who, this takes place during series 7, before the Doctor met modern-Clara but after he met Victorian-Clara.

**Warning: **There are graphic torture scenes later in the story and extreme angst that could be uncomfortable to some. This fic contains het and hints of both fem-slash and slash (mostly because of Jack Harkness.) There is also an OC, but she is only used for plot purposes and isn't a main character.

* * *

**One**

The Girl With The Ring

Dean Winchester woke gasping for breath and covered in sweat. It was a very familiar sensation, but it still left him breathless and afraid. He took deep, slow breaths to calm himself, and locked his gaze on something comforting: his younger brother, Sammy. Sam Winchester was sleeping in the bed opposite, his form rising and falling with his quiet snores. Over the beating of his feverish heart, Dean tried to think: Where was he? What was he doing? Then he remembered. He was in Iowa.

He and his brother had been drawn there by a chain of very bloody deaths, which had left nothing remaining of what could have possibly been called a person. To make matters more interesting, the latest victim would always be seen walking around the city, days after being killed. After a few days investigating, they discovered that it was a Ghoul roaming the area with a taste for fresh meat, and after taking the form of those it killed, as a sick joke, it would visit it's 'own' funeral.

That's how they caught it.

The Ghoul was walking down to the funeral home, dressed in a tie and a black suit, when the Winchesters located it. It had put up a good fight, but together, the brothers managed to kill it with a head-shot. Disposing of the body was a little harder, but they managed to remove it before the funeral began. Luckily, the Winchesters were not seen while they did any of this. This meant they could stay in a comfortable bed for a night longer without the police banging on their door. It was not something that happened often, nor was it something that they could allow to slow them down. There were too many monsters in the world, and not nearly enough hunters to deal with them, so stopping and staying was simply not an option. The brothers agreed leave the next morning.

It was _2:10 am. _The night was still young, and the only sounds were Sammy's quiet snores and the occasional car humming past the motel. As Dean lay awake, listening to Sam's breathing, he felt his heart steady to a nervous rhythm. The fact that he knew Sam was there was a comfort. It meant that he wasn't alone and, in the end, that was all he needed.

After a while, Dean closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He lay still for a short moment, watching the light show under his eyelids, and then, uncomfortable, he turned over. Then he turned his pillow over, rubbing his face into the cold softness and sighing. His body felt hot and sticky. His clothes clung to him. At last, Dean hauled his himself out of bed with a sound somewhere between a sigh and a grunt, and he wandered sleepily to the wash room.

He stumbled from fatigue, his hand shooting out towards the wall to steady himself. He pressed his forehead against the door frame and sighed.

This didn't usually happen. But then again, Dean's nightmares weren't usually so vivid - so _realistic - _as the one he'd just experienced. Like all his nightmares, Dean remembered being in Hell. Everything was toneless, bland - a dark void. There were rusty chains so long that they stretched further than the eye could see. From the chains hung meat hooks; blunted so they'd hurt more when they stuck into you. Some of the hooks were empty, but most of them had souls dangling like rags from them. Every second of every day, hungry demons would tear into them, ripping and carving the flesh apart until there was nothing remaining, and Hell would be constantly filled with millions of screams.**  
**

Dean rubbed his eyes to expel the memories, both guilty and pained by them, but it didn't work. He found himself wishing that he was back in Purgatory, where everything was so pure and he felt clean - even with the filth on his skin and clothes.

In his dream, Alistair the demon came to him, handing him a blade with the promise that the pain would stop. Dean had clasped the blade firmly with a new resolve. Alistair pointed at the wailing soul of a woman, and then leaned across and whispered in his ear: tips for how to get the girl to _really scream._ Dean approached her, licking his lips like a wolf, and she begged him to stop. She begged, and begged, and _begged - _and that's when Dean sliced the lips clean off her face. He felt her hot blood oozing down his hands – then he turned off the hot water tap and dried his hands on the towel, shuddering.

_Pull it together, Dean,_ he told himself, meeting his own eyes in the mirror. His reflection stared back at him mockingly, but Dean held his own gaze. He was Dean Winchester. He helped saved the world. He saved more people than he could count. He fought monsters for a living, and _Dean Winchester_ was never, ever afraid.

Dean sighed - like he _actually_ believed that - and buried his face into his towel. It was going to be a long night.

After a while, Dean pulled the towel from his face, and scowled at his reflection. He remembered something odd from his dream. A bright light had engulfed Hell and everyone in it. It reminded him of when the projector had burnt out, in school, and the picture melted away in a bubble of gold and orange, leaving only him with his knife. Steadying his knife in his hand, Dean looked left and right. The light had engulfed everything, but he still felt a presence there with him. He turned around, expecting Alistair to be there, but instead he saw a young woman. She was clean, wearing a white dress, and her skin was a sun-kissed brown. Her hair was blondish-brown and hung in curls over her shoulders and there was an orchid behind her ear. She was attractive, but it made Dean uncomfortable to think of her in such a way.

The woman had approached him, and Dean remembered feeling a painful throbbing as she did so. She slipped something into the pocket of his jeans and then vanished - which was when Dean woke in his bed.

Now, in the wash room, Dean slipped his hand into his pocket. He felt something small, hard, and cool; something that was not there when he went to sleep. Dean yanked his hand out of his pocket and found a ring laying in his open palm. It had a silver band, well-polished, with a milky white gem in it. There was something familiar about it, almost as if Dean had seen, or held, it once before. Dean held the ring between his fore finger and thumb and peered closer, turning the ring over in his fingers until –

"Holy crap!" Dean cried, jerking backwards as realisation hit him. The ring fell to the floor with a clatter and spun out of view. Dean flailed about in shock, bashing his shoulder against the shelf and knocking off all the shampoo bottles.

_Uh, oh._ Dean bit his lip. _Please don't wake up. Please don't wake up. Please don't wake up!_

Heavy footsteps made their way towards him. _**Damn it.**_

Sam appeared in the doorway. His eyes were still closed and his long hair was tussled from sleep. He yawned loudly, rubbed his eyes, and blinked at his brother. Dean was suddenly engulfed with an image of five-year-old Sammy as he tucked him into bed. He would ruffle his hair and Sam would playfully shove him away before curling up to sleep. Then, Dean would sit by his bed, a gun in his hand, waiting for their dad to return. Despite everything the brothers had endured, Sam still managed to keep a hold of himself, and he's suffered more than most people could bear. But Sam was still Sam - selfless little Sammy Winchester. Dean often wondered how he did it, when he, himself, felt so broken. Sam didn't even look annoyed at being woken - _for crying out loud _\- he just looked curious and a little concerned for his brother's welfare. "Everything okay?" Sam said quietly. **  
**

Dean nodded meekly, unable to do much else. He wasn't entirely sure how he would explain the mess - and the _ring_ at that! Also, to be honest, he felt too tired to even try. Something must have come off in Dean's response because suddenly Sam was wide awake, eyes large and staring at him with suspicion.

"What is it?" he demanded, "What's happened?"

"Nothing!" Dean said, too quickly.

Of course, Sam didn't look convinced _at all_.

Dean sighed, "Bad dream." He explained loosely, hoping it would be enough to deter his brother for the time being. He knew that Sam wouldn't give up so easily. It was admirable at times, but sometimes Dean wished he would leave him alone.

Sam gave him a sympathetic look, his lips forming a straight line. He nodded in understanding, and Dean silently thanked him. Before he left, Sam ran his eyes over the mess, raising an eye brow, "Just make sure you clean up." He gave the door frame a gentle tap, smiled, and turned away.

Dean nodded, "Right."

He waited until he was sure Sam had climbed back into bed, before he promptly dropped to the floor and began scrambling through the mess he'd made. He couldn't see the ring anywhere! _Shit. Shit. __**Shit! **_

Dean swam madly through the bottles, pushing them away with his arms, but the ring was nowhere to be found. He dragged his hands down his face in his frustration. He checked under the shower curtain, hoping it hadn't gone done the drain. He looked through the bottles again. This time he picked up each bottle in turn and placed it on the shelf, making sure the ring was not trapped between or beneath them. He continued searching until, at last, he spotted a small silver shining thing beside the bin and dived forward to grab it, almost knocking his head against the wall. He pulled the ring to his chest and exhaled with relief.

The ring belonged to Death, the horseman, who'd probably make sure he died slowly and painfully if he lost it. He had enough beef with Death already – they didn't exactly have the best history, in more ways than one. Dean liked to think they could get along if – _wait a minute._

Dean frowned: _How on hell and earth did I get Death's ring?_

* * *

The next morning was quiet, but the air was sourly flavoured with questions Sam had for his brother, hanging over them like water vapour. He was certain Dean hadn't gone back to sleep after the incident in the wash room. Usually Sam wouldn't worry about that, since Dean barely slept to begin with, but after last night he was keeping a close eye on him, and found that Dean was acting strangely. His first clue was when he woke up at _7:00 am_ and found Dean was pacing up and down the motel room. Since then, Sam watched Dean like a keen detective. He only left Dean alone when he went to go get breakfast and food for the road. He tried to act casual as he would every morning.

When he returned, Dean was slouched at Sam's laptop, rubbing his bottom lip in thought, but he slammed it shut when he noticed that Sam was in the motel.

"Pie?" Dean asked instantly, a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

"I got Twinkies." Sam replied, and Dean looked disappointed. It only made Sam smirk. He went past Dean and towards the kitchen, watching his older brother through the corner of his eye. His smile dropped when he noticed Dean delete the internet history on his laptop. Sam knew two things for certain: 1. Dean only used his laptop for last-minute research or porn, and, 2. Dean would never delete the history if it was porn and leave Sam to face the embarrassment. Dean was up to something, and he didn't want Sam to know what.

Sam turned away from Dean as he placed the shopping on the kitchen counter. He began to unpack the fresh fruit and vegetables, microwavable rice and pasta – the edible food rather than the things his brother consumed.

"I found a job." Dean said as he ate his Twinkies.

Sam frowned, unsure, but he pretended to be innocently curious, "Really? Already? I mean, we just finished off that Ghoul yesterday – are you sure you want to start working straight away?"

"Yep." Dean said and jumped up from where he was sat at the table. He strolled over to his bed, picking up his duffel bag, "So get packing. We're going to England."

Now _that_ threw Sam off completely. "Wait, _what?" _Surely, Dean was joking? Why would he want to take a job all the way in _England? _It wasn't like there wasn't enough work in the whole of America to occupy themselves with. It was a big country, and monsters of all kinds were popping up all over the place.

Dean's face seemed to close off from Sam's, and he turned so he was facing the complete opposite direction, and there was no way Sam could read his emotions. Usually, Sam read him like a book, and Dean did not want Sam to know what he was thinking. So, Dean continued to pack, and said to Sam, "I found a job. There has been, like, twenty-million random, unrelated, disappearances around south England. So I'm thinking maybe Spirits…"

"Spirits follow patterns and rules." Sam pointed out. He saw Dean roll his eyes.

"Well maybe there is a pattern and I haven't spotted it yet!" he huffed. Sam felt a little torn for a moment, and came close to spitting back at him for being reckless, but then he realised that Dean was tense around the shoulders. It suddenly hit him that Dean was _upset_ and was using a job as a distraction. Sam was getting increasingly concerned by the minute because this meant that Dean wasn't thinking clearly, and in their line of work, this could cost them both and many others their lives. Sam bit his lip and tried to think what he could do.

When Sam hadn't said anything, Dean continued, "…So, anyway, I just thought it's something we should check out." He looked over his shoulder at Sam expectantly, "So pack, Sammy. We need to prepare for anything."

Sam was surprised at Dean's tone. For a moment, he sounded a lot like their dad. And, instinctual, Sam retaliated. "How do you know this is our kind of thing?"

"Because..." Dean threw a tight smile over his shoulder, "Apparently, there was some weird flux of energy where each of the victims was. That's why I thought spirits. Maybe it's some kind of ectoplasm."

Sam folded his arms sceptically, pressing his lips together.

As Dean went to go get his jacket, Sam stayed where he was and continued to watch him. Sam noticed that Dean tried to discreetly slip something small and silver into his pocket before he pulled his jacket on, and he found himself curious about what it could be. _Talk to him!_ Sam's subconsciousness ordered, but Sam's brain knew he wouldn't get a decent answer out of Dean while his brother was in this state. Dean was secretive, and Sam knew it was none of his business to pry.

But still, Sam found it difficult to keep his concerns to himself, especially when they were about his brother. The best solution would possibly be for him to stay quiet - but Sam found himself protesting at that thought. Whenever they'd kept something a secret from the other, it had always ended badly, and Sam didn't want to make that mistake again. With that in mind, perhaps it would be better to let Dean know of his concerns. As Sam thought about this, it seemed to become the better solution. Dean would learn that Sam was worried about him, and know that Sam was there to confide in. Sam hesitated just a moment longer but, at last, he spoke; slowly and carefully, with a voice laced with understanding and sympathy. "Dean, you only go on a non-stop working spree when you're upset about something."

Dean just scowled. His shoulders tensed up even more than they already had, as though he felt that he was about to be attacked. It was almost possible to say that he was. "What would I have to be upset about?" he snapped.

"I don't know." Sam replied honestly, because it was the truth, "But that just worries me more. Plus you're taking a job in England, which involves _flying. _And you said that_ every_ hunter in England is tied up. You can't expect me not to be suspicious."

"Dude relax!" Dean cried, waving his hands in exasperation "It's not like that!"

Sam raised an eyebrow, prompting him to go on. **  
**

Dean opened his mouth, closed it, and then moved closer to his brother. He forced a fake reassuring smile that Sam could see straight through, and after a pause he said, "Garth called, all right? Apparently, he contacted a hunter in England to check this case out, and he hasn't heard from him since. And all the other hunters are stuck six-feet underground dealing with a massive monster pest problem - I'm talking _The Birds_ kind of massive. So, we're pretty much the only hunters on the table that Garth trusts to find this guy and stop whatever took him - what with everyone else we know being dead!"

Sam flinched a little at that. When he looked at Dean, his eyes where at the floor, his eyebrows drawn, looking like he wasn't sure why he said that the way he did.

But he seemed to be telling the truth. Or most of it, and although he wondered _when _exactly Garth could have called, the younger Winchester decided to drop his concerns for the moment. Hopefully, Dean would be ready to open up to him later on, before things got too bad. In the meantime, Sam decided he would focus on the new case and, quickly choosing to change the subject, he asked, "What was the hunter's name?"

His brother looked pleased with himself, his ego allowing him to think that he'd deterred Sam on his own. He went to go pick up his bag and replied, "Jack."

Sam was quiet. He remembered hearing that name before, but he wasn't sure where.

Dean mistook Sam's silence for confusion, and nodded, "Yeah, I've never heard of him neither."

Sam went over to his bed, where his duffel bag perched, and began packing. He put his clothes in first, folding each one carefully, while asking Dean, "Did Garth send you a picture, or anything to go on?"

"Come on – it's Garth!" Dean exclaimed, and Sam chuckled. Garth was a good hunter, really, but sometimes he missed the obvious, like - oh, I don't know - sending them a picture so they knew _who _ they were actually looking for. "All I know is that they hunted together, like, once and that he was a friend of Bobby's."

Sam stopped. Bobby's name had struck a chord in his memory, "Wait. Did you say Jack?"

Dean stopped as well, but only to blink at his brother, "Yeah?"

"Jack, as in, Jack the specialist?"

Dean just blinked again, a dumbfounded expression on his face.

Sam stared at him with disbelief, "Dude, he was in dad's journal! They went hunting together!"

Dean stared at him for a moment, and then said, "I'm not even going to ask how you remembered that." He went to his bag and pulled out the tattered remains of their father's journal. Dean had tried to keep it in good condition, to honour their father's memory, but it was difficult when they went travelling all over. He leafed through the crispy brown pages which were scrawled in black ink and stopped abruptly. Sam looked at him curiously, when Dean began to read:

"– 'July 14th. Jack and I went hunting for the pack.'–"

Sam blinked. He waited for Dean to keep going, but when he didn't, he simply stared, not knowing whether he should be surprised or simply annoyed. "Is that it?!" he cried. **  
**

"Yep. Doesn't even say what they were hunting for - actually it's been rubbed out. I can't make it out." After a moment, Dean shook his head, slammed the book close, and slipped it back into his bag. It wasn't the first time they had consulted the journal with disappointing results. Once upon a time, their survival depended on what was written in those pages, but recently it seemed as though their father was keen on keeping secrets from them. The record secret so far had been the discovery of their half-brother Adam - Sam just hoped that was the biggest secret their father had to hide...

After a pause, Sam just shrugged, "Oh well. We can call Garth when we get there, and ask more about this Jack. In the meantime, we should just prepare anything." He slipped a small knife into his shoe, the one they mostly used for cutting the heads off of vampires, while Dean migrated into the kitchen. Sam moved to pick up the Angel blade, then paused, remembering their angel-friend, Castiel. He asked Dean, "Hey, are you gonna call Cas?"

Dean had been in the kitchen searching through the food Sam bought and packing the essentials: cake and sweets – Sam would have to go back later and pack the _real _food – because God knows that Dean never takes care of his health. He stopped and sighed when Sam asked about Cas. It wasn't that he didn't like Castiel - no, quite the opposite. It was just that he hated flying, and flying with angels was no different. In fact, it was _almost worse_. It felt like he was falling a thousand miles in a spilt second; his stomach would bash around in his insides and it left him nauseated. The only upside that made it better than an aeroplane is that it only lasted a second.

So, Dean closed his eyes, and prayed, "Dear Castiel, our not-so heavenly angel. We pray in your good name – yadda, yadda, yadda – get your ass here and help us out. Amen."

They waited in silence for a response. It was so quiet that they could hear each other's breathing. Then it came – a gust of wind as a bird lands after flight, its feathers slicing through the air in clean-cut gestures. Dean and Sam spun round towards the sound and there stood Castiel. He wore his usual tattered trench coat and the navy blue tie that was never done up right. His raven-black hair was sticking up: this was the only evidence of his flight.

"Hello, Dean." Castiel greeted. He looked at Sam and gave a polite nod, "Hello, Sam."

Dean grinned, his face brightening up instantly, "It's good to see you, Cas."

Castiel gave a small smile, too innocent for a mighty angel. He asked, "You required my help?"

"Yeah." Sam said, "We need a lift to England, London."

That's when everything became tense - or, at least, more tense then it already was. Castiel looked _horrified_ to say the least. His blue eyes were wide with horror and longing, but also hesitation. For a being that was not meant to feel emotions, there were so many present on his face. His face was stiff with the weight of them.

The two brothers exchanged worried glances, and Sam asked, carefully, "Is that okay, Cas?"

Castiel didn't reply but nodded tersely and looked up again, a smile masking his face. Sam wasn't too keen with the response. However, Castiel had agreed and the two brothers positioned themselves in front of the angel, with their bags on their backs. Castiel lifted his arms, and the brother's quickly bent their legs before the angel pressed two fingers to their foreheads. They felt themselves lift of the ground for a moment and faster than the eye could blink, the ground returned as they found themselves on an unfamiliar street in the pouring rain.

Dean swung dizzily, a green look on his face, before he steadied himself and scowled at the rain. "Oh jeez." Dean muttered, glancing up at the dark clouded sky and then back at his brother, yanking his jacket over his head, "Fucking England, man."

Sam nodded in agreement, pulling his own jacket tighter around him as the shock of the sudden 10 degree temperature drop reached his skin, and he shuddered. "There's an apartment down there." He said, nodding his head to a row of buildings on the opposite side of the road, "If you get us a room, I can go to Scotland Yard and ask for some records."

Dean nodded in agreement, and then turned to where Castiel stood, "Hey, Cas, thanks for the…" The angel had disappeared, like he had never been there in the first place. Dean sighed, glancing round to see if the angel was nearby, but he was gone. Sam wasn't too surprised; Castiel didn't look very comfortable with the idea of coming to England. But there was no time to ponder about that. Sam turned to his brother, "I'll meet you in New Scotland Yard."

Dean nodded once, and the two brothers spilt up in opposite directions.

Sam knew his way around London because of a field trip he once went on with one of his schools. He remembered it was something to do with tourist attractions, in his Humanities class, and they had come mainly to analyse why London was popular. Sam didn't have many friends, no one who wanted to work or even be around him, the 'Freak', so he sneaked away from the class when no one was looking. He went around the stalls first, but ended up getting lost. He panicked for a moment, but when he saw the London Eye, standing tall as his beacon of hope, he got an idea. If Sam went on the London Eye, where he could see everything, wouldn't he be able to find his way back? He remembered being dazzled by the view and talking to a man who was older than he was but looked equally dazzled. They stayed on the Eye long after it went dark, talking about the amazing universe and the stars. It was only when the police came looking for him did he leave. He'd gotten in deep trouble for it, but he thought it was worth it.

Now, Sam made sure he wouldn't get lost.

He took a quick detour to some public toilets and got changed into his suit. It was not the most dignified thing to do, but the Winchesters had done worse. Much worse. He made sure he looked professional before he stepped out into the streets, pretending that he'd _not _just got changed in the toilets despite the looks he was getting. When Sam arrived at New Scotland Yard, he quickly got out one of his fake badges for the Secret Service. Usually, he and his brother picked to pose as the FBI for a case such as this, but Sam knew that the FBI had nothing to do with England and wouldn't work. He checked the name on the badge, and then slipped it into his inside pocket of his blazer.

As soon as Sam entered the building, the woman at the front desk glanced up. Her hair was red and tied into a long ponytail, and her eyes were round and blue and peered at him through small glasses. Sam got his badge out ready.

"Hi." He said, smiling, "I'm Sergeant Worden. I was wondering if I could see some missing person reports."

"Can I see some I.D?" asked the woman. Sam had heard that line so many times, he could have mouthed it along with her. He pulled his badge out his pocket and showed it to her. The woman took the badge and peered closer. Her eyebrows raised, and she seemed a little curious, but she gave him back his badge none the less. "How may I help you?"

Unknown to Sam, another man had entered the building. He was tall and slender, wearing a dark suit, much like Sam's own. He had short grey hair which was damp and carried dew drops from the rain. He held a coffee in his left hand, and his coat was slung over his right arm. He was walking towards the lift, but stopped when he saw Sam out of the corner of his eye.

Sam continued, "I'm here about the disappearances across London."

"I was on that case." The man said, suddenly. Sam turned around, surprised, as the other approached. As a first impression, Sam found himself liking the man. He had a smile of made of a genuine kindness, a compassion for others that could not be faked, but his deep brown eyes had a dark undertone, barely hidden by a coating of social teaching. "Sorry." the man continued, passing his cup to his right hand and holding out his left, "Inspector Lestrade. I hate to be rude, but you said you were looking into the disappearances?"

"Hello, Inspector." Sam greeted, politely shaking the man's hand before showing his badge, "Secret Service. And, yes I did." Sam took a moment to pull out a notebook from his top pocket and a pen, hoping to record anything that could be important for figuring out what was going on behind this case. "You were saying that you worked on this case?"

Lestrade nodded, "Yeah. A few months ago, actually."

"What happened?"

"Nothing." He admitted with a shrug, and Sam glanced up from his notebook in surprise, "It's still open, the case, but we've got no leads. It's like these people just vanish…into thin air."

Sam thought about it for a moment. It definitely sounded like a case he and his brother would usually take and, as usual, the police had no idea what they were up against. "It is mysterious." Sam said, "I was wondering if you could show me the missing person reports."

"Of course. This way."

As Lestrade lead him down the narrow corridor, Sam sent a quick text to Dean and hoped his brother would have found a place for them to stay by now, and hadn't gone to look for a bar, or something.

_**Dean: **__Secret Service. Wear a suit._

He glanced up from his phone when he heard clacking footsteps of high heels on the hard floor, and quickly slipped his phone into his pocket again. The woman coming down the opposite end of the corridor was thin and quite tall, although she was tiny compared to Sam, and had dark skin and dark fuzzy hair. By her uniform, Sam guessed she was a Sergeant.

Lestrade smiled courteously when he saw her, "Morning, Donovan."

Sergeant Donovan stopped, "Freak called." She informed him, unable to keep the snap out of her voice. Donovan looked more than irritated, not just at the fact that this 'Freak' called, but she also looked irritated with Lestrade, but a different kind of irritated - the type that Sam feels when he knows Dean is going to do something stupid. Donovan glanced briefly at Sam, whose eyebrows were raised high, and her eyes narrowed before she looked back at Lestrade.

Suddenly, Lestrade looked old, like he'd been working too hard. Sam was reminded of mothers who always looked tired because of the stress their baby caused. "You're joking."

"Nope." Donovan said, frowning, "This case has been open been open for ages, and now he's taken an interest? It's suspicious, and you know it."

The inspector glanced at Sam and back again, just like Donovan had done – suddenly Sam felt as though there was a lot more going on in Scotland Yard than meets the eye. "Tell him I'll talk to him later." He told Donovan, "I'm busy at the moment."

Donovan looked sceptical, almost like she wanted to protest, but she gave a sharp nod and continued down the corridor.

"What was that all about?" Sam asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"We have an expert who comes in often, but he's, well…" Lestrade trailed off, thinking of the right word to describe this 'expert'.

"A nuisance?" Sam supplied helpfully.

Lestrade smirked, "Oh, you have no idea. Anyway, the archives are this way."

They continued their walk through the building until they came to the archives. The whole room was a labyrinth of shelves and filing cabinets, filled with millions of police records collected over the years, each one numbered differently. Lestrade lead the way, counting the numbers under his breath as they went, and Sam suspected he'd probably get lost if he was alone. Eventually, they came to a shelf labelled 32-29-10 and Lestrade pulled out a file titled 'Wester Drumlins' and handed it over to Sam.

"This has all records of reported disappearances." He explained as Sam looked through the file, "It also has the cars and objects we found that belonged to the people who went missing. They're in a warehouse over in Newport, if you're interested."

Sam looked up at him and smiled, "Thank you."

He noticed that Lestrade was looking behind him instead of at him and Sam glanced round and saw Dean, with an officer beside him, approaching them. He nodded to the officer, thanking her for directions, and joined Sam and Lestrade, "The woman at the desk said I could come straight through." Dean gave an innocent smile, and lifted up his badge for the Inspector to see, "David Nelson. I'm his partner."

Sam nodded to confirm this, and showed Dean the file. He looked through the file at the images of woman, children, men and the dates and locations they were last seen. Dean asked, "Any connection between the victims?"

"None whatsoever." Lestrade said, a thin smile on his lips, although there was no humour there.

Suddenly, Lestrade's phone beeped. He gave them an apologetic look and glanced at his phone."Bollocks." he hissed under his breath. Again, he gave the brothers another apologetic look and said, "I have to go. When you've finished, I recommend that you talk to our expert – try not to punch him." He added sincerely, and Sam and Dean exchanged surprised glances before watching Lestrade leave.

Dean smiled, "I kinda like him."

Sam huffed in amusement.

"So," Dean looked back at his brother, "I got us a room. The landlady has pie."

Rolling his eyes, Sam took the file off Dean, "We're on a case. Try to stay focused. Did you find out what happened to Cas?"

"No." Dean said with an annoyed sigh, "He just vanished – again. I don't know why I bother to be honest."

Sam was no longer listening. He was frowning at the pages he was looking at. On one, there was a picture of a woman called Katherine Costello Nightingale, and on the next, a boy called March Denton. Lestrade was right when he said that there appeared to be no connection – these two people weren't related, didn't live here each other, and Sam doubted that they'd even _met_, but there _was_ something he had spotted.

According to the reports, Katherine disappeared on the 9th June 2007, whereas March went missing on the 5th February 2008. Sam looked back through the previous pages and noticed that before this point, the disappearances happened almost every three weeks to a month. Why the sudden gap? Sam looked at where they disappeared and suddenly his heart skipped a beat.

"Hey, I think I have a lead." Sam said, and Dean, who had been ranting about Cas the whole time, stopped short and blinked at him. Sam laid out the folder on the shelf in front of him and pulled out this phone, bringing up a map of the UK. "Check this out. I'm not sure what were after, but it turns out that the disappearances started over in Newport, around this old house called Wester Drumlins." Sam showed Dean the location on his phone. It was a good 100 miles from London, at least. Sam then gestured to the people in the file. "Katherine went missing in this house, and so did March."

Dean furrowed his brow, "So what then? A vengeful spirit has latched onto the house, and whoever goes inside vanishes?"

"I thought that too. But look at this." Sam pointed to the dates on the files, "There is a massive gap here, whereas the other disappearances happened within weeks."

"So?" Dean said, raising an eyebrow, "Maybe people got spooked and stayed away. It's what any rational person would have done."

Sam turned over the page where there was an older man and pointed to the location the man was last seen at.

"– 'The Celtic Manor Resort.' -" Dean read, frowning. He began to suspect what Sam was getting at, but didn't voice his thoughts in case they were wrong.

Sam showed him the map on his phone, pointing out the resort and the Wester Drumlins house, "That's about 5 miles away from the house, see?"

Dean chewed his lip thoughtfully, "So whatever it is, it's migrating."

"Exactly!" Sam declared. He suddenly felt like a detective in the books he used to read as a boy. "Spirits are supposed to follow patterns, and can't leave the place they're attached to. So, why would a spirit stop snatching people for _eight months_ and then randomly start-up again outside the place it's supposedly attached to?"

"When did the vanishing stop vanishing?" Dean asked, seriously.

Sam ignored his brother's choice of wording. After all, it wasn't the dumbest thing Dean had ever said. "2007, I guess." He turned the page back to Katherine Costello Nightingale, "With her."

"Why?" Dean muttered, "What happened in 2007?"

"Nothing that made world news." Sam replied. He gestured to the page again. Beneath the personal details, and case notes, there was the name of the person who reported the disappearance, "Some woman reported something odd about the house, and a few days later the disappearances stopped – but only for eight months. After that, all the disappearances triangulate _away_ from the house."

"But everything started there." Dean muttered, looking at his brother, "I guess we should too."

Sam nodded. He slipped the files into his bag and walked out with his brother. Dean stopped him. "Sam?" He looked at him with a cringe, "Keep control of your inner nerd, please. That was humiliating."

"It's not my fault you're an idiot." Sam retorted, with a smirk. "You would be lost without me! Admit it!"

As they approached the exit, they could hear muffled voices coming from the entrance room. When they walked in, they saw Lestrade talking to a dark-haired man in a long dark coat. He was slightly taller than Lestrade, but smaller than Dean, and was pale with sharp cheekbones and a pointed face. Next to him stood a shorter man with blondish-brown hair cropped short like in the military. Although he wasn't _that_ short, he was the smallest person in the room. Meanwhile, Donovan was leaning against the wall beside Dean and Sam, and shaking her head.

"You can't do that!" Lestrade scolded. He sounded like a teacher trying to explain what was right and wrong to a three-year-old.

"Why not?" the taller man demanded, honestly confused. _Yeah_, Sam thought, _definitely a three-year-old._

Donovan scoffed from where she was stood, "You harpooned a pig on a bus! Again!"

"I was _bored._" the taller man said, as if it justified everything. Lestrade folded his arms and scowled at him. The taller man looked to the shortest man in the room for help, "John."

John held up his hands took a step back, "I am _not _defending you!"

The taller man looked betrayed and turned away from John, looking at Sam and Dean. He stared hard at them.

Lestrade quickly said, "Secret Service. So keep your mouth shut." He smiled over at Sam and Dean like he was never angry, "Did you find what you were looking for?"

Sam nodded, "Yes, thank you. We'll be on our way now."

"Show me your badges." The tall, dark man said, suddenly, holding his hand out as though he was expecting sweets. Sam and Dean looked at one another again, and complied, watching cautiously as the tall man looked over their badges. "Fascinating." He whispered, looking up at them, "You're fakes."

"_WHAT?!" _Everyone in the room, except the tall man, screamed at once in one outrageous noise. Sam and Dean stared at him, unsure of what to do. John quickly moved to the doorway, blocking their escape. Donovan was now stood straight, looking at Lestrade for orders. Lestrade was looking between the tall man and the agents he knew to be fake, looking both betrayed and confused.

"Your suits." The tall man said as if it was obvious. He continued at an alarming speed before the brothers had time to question what was happening, "They are cheap and frayed along the elbow line, and patches have been stitched – rather badly and repeatedly – with dental floss. This means you have a very active job, but not one with the Secret Service or they'd provide new suits with better stitching. That, as well as the obvious fact that these badges –" he flopped the two badges around in his hands like rag dolls, "– are fake."

Sam stared at him, his eyes wide with both fear and admiration.

Dean just scowled and, feeling threatened by the man, he demanded, "Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes." The tall, dark man answered, swiftly, proudly, as though he was expecting them to ask for autographs, or grovel at his feet.

Dean raised an eyebrow and looked at him sceptically. Sam held back a snigger. "Sherlock Holmes?" the two of them said at the same time, both as disbelieving as the other. Did his parents have some kind of fetish? No one was called _Sherlock Holmes!_

Sherlock's greenish-brown eyes began to dart inhumanly fast over Dean and Sam's bodies, drinking all the details in from the bags under Sam's eyes to the way Dean had tied his tie. He looked back at Lestrade, "Honestly, Grady, it's obvious! Even _you_ should have seen it."

"It's Greg!" Lestrade corrected, looking peeved. He paused, looking suspiciously at Sam and Dean, and then he turned back to Sherlock and asked quietly, "What else can you see, Sherlock?"

"You." Sherlock first focused on Sam, "There's a large cut on your arm – sewn up so it was obviously not self-harm. Once again, it's sewn up with dental floss so you don't have many luxuries, which implies that you're unemployed. Going by your accents, you travel often which is also proved by the bags under your eyes, probably from driving all night. There's three knifes and a gun hidden under your jacket, which means your line of work is very dangerous – that's probably were you got the scars from: Attackers; animals, perhaps."

He then gestured to Dean, "You. You're the eldest. When I saw through your disguise you took a protective stance, slightly in front of the other. You feel some sort of responsibility towards him which suggests a closer relationship than just 'partners'. Responsibility implies an elder age."

Dean's hand had clenched into a fist when Sherlock began to scrutinise him, and was tightening more and more as he spoke that his knuckles were turning pale.

"But it's _more_ than just responsibility." Sherlock was saying, squinting at him, "You stepped in to protect him the exact _second_ something seemed wrong – I doubt you noticed it at all, so it's something you've been taught to do from an early age and has become natural instinct, probably from an older member of your family. You're the eldest, so it was not an older brother. Maybe an uncle, or family friend, but your dependence on each other suggests that you have barely any family connections, or friends. Therefore, it must have been a parent. It could have been your mother, but judging by the way you tensed when I mentioned her, you either didn't know her or she left you at a young age, so it's your father. Also your co-dependency implies you had a dysfunctional family, as this is a common trait among people with relationships such as yours, which implies that either you hate your father or he's dead. Again, you've tensed up, and you're looking increasingly violent. But that's besides the point." Sherlock leaned closer to Dean, his eyes gleaming with excitement, "How long has your father been dead?"

That's when Dean punched him.

* * *

**Chapter Notes: **The day Katherine went missing, 9th June 2007, is the date the original Doctor Who episode 'Blink' aired in the UK (or at least it is according to Google) The distance between Wester Drumlins and the Celtic Manor Resort is 5 miles if you go the shortest way, and all information I got about the locations was from Google Maps. I apologize if any of it is inaccurate. I realised that 'Blink' was wrong when Katherine said that she was in the middle of London - she was in fact in Newport so factored this in this chapter. Heh, nerd, just like Sam. :D

Also, I researched about co-dependant relationships for part of Sherlock's deduction. It was like reading a profile about Sam and Dean. It's strange because before I found this I thought 'hey these two have a great relationship' but according to this co-dependency is a generally a negative thing. It really gave me some interesting insight into Sam and Dean's relationship.


	2. A Case of National Importance

**Disclaimer:** Characters aren't mine with the exception of Sarah Denton, March Denton, and Mr Clark.

* * *

**Two**

A Case Of National Importance

It was early afternoon when John Watson went to visit his old friend Sherlock Holmes in his flat in 221B Baker Street. Even though he had long since moved out, John still had the key to the flat for sentimental value. However he rarely had to use it since Sherlock always kept the door unlocked for him - not that Sherlock _cared _or anything. That would be ridiculous.

As John walked in, he hung his coat on its usual hook and looked round the dusty flat, drinking it in. It was always dark because Sherlock kept the curtains closed, and everything inside was neither dark green or brown. John liked it this way. It felt warm and comforting, like watching a classic Disney movie, and it gave John the same feeling of nostalgia. The brown furniture was lit up gold by the fire-place, like a mysterious hoard of gold at the heart of the flat. _A heart of gold, _John thought, and yes, that seemed appropriate. He'd have to remember that for his blog later - Sherlock always complained that he romanticised everything, and John would be forced to admit that, maybe, he was a romantic underneath his rough military exterior.

John spotted Sherlock sat in his chair, facing away from the windows - _"Light is distracting, John!" - _ his hands pressed together, tucked under his chin and his eyes were closed. John tried to be quiet: his friend was thinking, and hated to be disturbed. This was another way Sherlock was odd; sometimes he noticed the tiniest changes in the flat, a creak in the floorboard or a fleck of dust out of place, and other times he wouldn't even notice if a circus had come in, performed, tidied up, and marched back out while he was thinking. Still, John crept into the kitchen, each step taken with caution like a mouse trying to avoid a trap, but he accidentally stepped on a creaky floorboard. As the floor moaned and sighed under his boot, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and John was caught.

"Hey." He said, awkwardly.

Sherlock glanced over at him, his eyes flickering over John as he began to automatically analyse him, as practise for later deductions. There was a little smudge of grease on his bottom lip – _chips – _and he was frowning a little, with bags under his eyes – _tired, annoyed, frustrated – _and then there was his shirt. It was slightly damp along the collar line and chest, but dry on the sleeves where he'd been wearing a coat – _was it raining?_ Sherlock then realised that John had been out, but not with Mary or he would have brought an umbrella to keep them both dry while they stayed a close proximity to each other. _(Gone out + frustrated + chips.) _That could only mean…"You've been with Mycroft." Sherlock accused, his greenish eyes narrowing at John.

"Yeah." John said, puzzled. "It's Friday."

Sherlock blinked, "Is it? Oh. I could have sworn it was Monday when I sat down – oh well." John raised his eyebrows as Sherlock got up and wandered over to the wall where photographs of his 'markers', as he put it, and maps of London were pinned up. Though his eyes followed the pattern only visible to him, Sherlock continued talking with John, "You've had chips with him again. I thought that would stop once I came back."

"Force of habit." John said with a shrug - which wasn't actually true; John would give anything not to have to sit and talk with Sherlock's brother, but he couldn't help it if he was kidnapped on a weekly basis. John moved from where he was stood in the kitchen and came into the main space of the flat, taking his usual seat opposite Sherlock's. He watched his friend look over the wall and imagined his brain working like gears on a clock; perfection, everything in working order. John had called Sherlock a machine before, referring to his lack of human heart and his understanding of it, but it was true in that Sherlock's mind worked like a machine; fast, calculated, and professionally ordered. In reality, John never had much luck with machines. He's once yelled at a Self-Check-Out while shopping. _Stupid, inferior, thing! _In fact, it was safe to say that Sherlock was the only machine John thought he understood.

"He told you something, didn't he?" Sherlock asked, though it was hardly a question, more like another one of Sherlock's futile attempts at 'chatting.'

When John said nothing, Sherlock turned from the wall and narrowed his eyes at him. One look at John's expression told the detective all he needed to know. "No. I won't do it." He said firmly and turned back to wall, "Moriarty is alive. I need to know how, why, and what his endgame is."

John sighed, "Sherlock. Just relax, will you?"

But Sherlock was not listening, having blocked John out as he usually did when it came to cases. He was alone with nothing but his mind and a series of questions to which he had no answers. "How was he able to fake his death? How did I miss it? How did he get his face on all the screens across the country? _OH GOD!" _Sherlock pressed his hands into his eyes and groaned, "I _hate_ not knowing!"

"Sherlock." John tried again. He reached out and tapped Sherlock gently on the arm, and the taller man tensed, having not noticed John's migration across the room towards him. "Listen. It's been months. You need a case. Moriarty hasn't done anything, so why don't you just do the one Mycroft...suggested." He awkwardly tacked on the last word.

Sherlock peered at John for a moment before looking back at the wall. He was quiet for a minute or so, contemplating what John had said, turning it over in his mind, until at last he said, "No. It's tedious, pointless, and probably oblivious." He stubbornly fixed his eyes on the wall and refused to look at anything else.

John just raised his eyebrows at his friend, "Probably?" He echoed. Since meeting Sherlock, over four years ago, he'd picked up a few deduction skills of his own, often under the guidance of his friend who inadvertently mocked him by saying things like "_you missed everything _important_"_ and '_that's good, but it hasn't got anything to do with this._' However he knew a few tricks from before he met Sherlock - as much as Sherlock liked to believe that John simply hadn't lived since before they met, and he just sort of 'happened' - during his time in the war, and one of them was to pick up on what people said and the particular tone and expression they had while speaking. It's because of this that John could often read a little more into Sherlock than others could, or even would. "Meaning you don't know because you won't even think about it." John continued, folding his arms, "Why? Because _Mycroft_ suggested it."

"Excellent deduction, John, but you missed out the oblivious detail."

_Here it comes, _John thought. He pressed his lips into a tight line, clearing the back of his throat, and waited for Sherlock to continue.

"I have thought about the case." Sherlock admitted, pressing the tips of his fingers together and tucking them under his chin in his usual 'thinking' position. He reminded John of some otters he'd seen in the zoo, but decided not to mention this, and actually pay attention to what Sherlock was saying, "There have been several hundred disappearances over the south of England – all victims seemingly unconnected except by the way they went missing. All of them, when out in the open, either in a group or on their own, but the second they disappeared they were isolated, perhaps in their homes with the doors locked, or somewhere safe."

"How did you work that out?" John asked, but then a thought occurred to him, "No, don't tell me…Was it your Homeless Network?"

"They keep a watchful eye out." Sherlock avowed, with a thin smile, "So - since they were isolated, there was no possible way for a kidnapper to get to them. Also there was no evidence at any of the crime scenes to suggest that they had been taken by someone. And yet, they're gone – but why would a kidnapper take so many victims? There's probably more than one of them. An organisation, perhaps, but why so many victims, and why those ones?"

John blinked at him, and then asked sarcastically, "So you're not on the case, then?"

"Nope." Sherlock said, popping the 'p'. He was serious. "I was just passing the time." He continued his scowl at the wall, as if it was insulting - which, to Sherlock, it probably was - before he suddenly cried, "Why hasn't Moriarty done anything?! He announces his return and then – nothing!"

"You're bored." John concluded, after a long pause.

Sherlock sighed, "Yes…" He pulled his hands through his curly hair, tugging the curls in front of his eyes. He murmured, "So very bored."

"Why don't you just take the case?" John asked with an impatient huff. Sherlock could be such a child sometimes! "Mycroft said it was of national importance." And let's face it, last time he said that, Sherlock and John almost got blown up along with Parliament.

"He _always _says it's of national importance." Sherlock bemoaned. He put on a whiny voice to represent Mycroft, "Sherlock, Sherlock, _please_ take mummy and daddy out on Saturday instead of me. It's of _national importance_." Sherlock cringed, returning to his normal voice, "It's ludicrous!"

John just smiled, shaking his head fondly and chuckling. As he shook his head, he noticed something thin and gleaming in the corner of his eye. He turned and saw Sherlock's harpoon – he never bothered to ask why he had one – standing up against the bookshelf. Its silver metal was shining in the orange light of the fireplace, but it was coated in a layer of bright red, were the light of the flames created an orange dance on its red liquid surface. John frowned at it, and was disturbed when he realised it was covered in blood. "Oh God, Sherlock, what have done, _now?_"

"You know, I'll think we should go to Scotland Yard, after all." Sherlock said. He abruptly turned from the wall and bounded past John to grab his long black coat. He slipped it on, turning up the collars, and then grabbed his purple scarf and looped it round his neck. "Come on, John."

John was put off for a moment, then he shook himself and glared after his friend. "Sherlock!" John cried, but his friend was already half-way down the stairs. John hurried after him, grabbing his coat and blundering down the stairs as he tried to catch up. He managed to reach Sherlock as the man waved down a taxi, and he demanded, "Why does your harpoon have blood on it?"

"I was bored." Sherlock said defensively.

John stared at him, "Oh. Dear. _God_."

When they arrived at New Scotland Yard ten minutes later, Sergeant Donovan was already waiting for them, since Sherlock had called ahead while in the taxi. Even though she was curious about why Sherlock had suddenly taken an interest in the Wester Drumlins case, she was more concerned about the reports of a mad man harpooning an escaped pig on the 200 bus this morning. Talking soon turned into yelling, and it took a joint effort from John and Lestrade to settle everything down. Lestrade then proceeded to interrogate Sherlock. Of course, Sherlock had insisted it was for a case. Apparently a farmer had asked him to do it for 'the good of the nation', although John suspected the farmer had actually said 'it's good for the _bacon_'. It also made him chuckle at the fact that Sherlock would do something for the 'good of the nation' if anyone but Mycroft suggested it - and it _had_ to be a suggestion.

Mycroft would not be happy about any of this. After all Sherlock was a celebrity around London and had an international reputation – even if he was only known as 'The Hat Detective' to most people – and he couldn't afford to be harpooning pigs on buses. John inwardly groaned when he realised that this meant he'd be getting another visit from Mycroft, cautioning him to keep an eye on his brother. _No, Mycroft, _John thought, practising his response in his head for when Mycroft kidnapped him next, _You will not pay me to spy on Sherlock, even though he says I should so we can 'spilt the fee.'_

Actually, on second thought, that was probably not the best thing to say.

Do you know what the funny thing was? John actually thought _this_ would be the strangest part of his day, but that all changed when those two Americans walked into the room...

* * *

If looks could kill, the glare Dean was giving the wall would definitely have destroyed it. Dean was, in a word, **_livid. _**

It wasn't just because Sherlock Holmes had blown their cover, and then proceeded to intrude and wipe his dirty boots all over their lives - _who does he think he is?_ No, it was after he'd thrown the first punch, and he'd gotten punched back in return. Hard. Now, Dean wasn't a cry baby. Not in the least. He understood that he probably deserved a little punch. But now he had the most ugly purple bruise on his cheek, and there was a hot burning pain in front of his ear. Dean spat out a little blood and groaned.

"_Don't worry." John had said, tense and angry around Dean, as he and Sam were forced into the small room by Donovan and Lestrade, "It's only fractured. Trust me, I'm a doctor."_

Dean tenderly poked his jaw line, wincing as he did so. He tried to sigh but that hurt too. In fact, opening or closing his mouth was difficult. Dean would have thought it was broken, but he'd seen broken jaws on movies: they hung down like lifeless clothes on a line, and could swing right behind the ear; but that didn't mean that Dean was grateful or anything - he still got punched.

Sam was sat quietly beside his brother, since they were both cuffed to the table. He hadn't said anything for the last twenty minutes they'd been trapped there. He'd just sat, staring across at the wall, with his brooding, pensive look. He wondered what Inspector Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan were doing. Maybe they were watching them through the camera in the top right corner of the room. He wondered how he and his brother would get out of this predicament. At this thought, he glanced up and noticed Dean poking his jaw and he said quietly, "Try not to move it."

"Shut up." Dean tried to say, but it was painful. He groaned loudly, and swore venomously, "I am _so_ getting him back for this."

Sam's look of sympathy turned disapproving, "Dean!" he scolded, glaring at his brother for a moment, but Dean showed no reaction. Sam turned away, mumbling, "You shouldn't have hit him."

"Hey, I didn't know his midget was standby!" Dean argued, wincing again because of his jaw.

"I'd probably do the same if someone hit you." Sam admitted with a careless shrug, and Dean just stared at him, unsure whether to be insulted that Sam wasn't taking his side, or pleased with the fact that his younger brother was protective of him. In the end, he settled on being pleased, but it didn't do much to lift his mood.

_Sam knew Dean was going to punch Sherlock long before he did it, but this still didn't give him enough time to stop his brother's lightning reflexes. Dean punched Sherlock in the nose, and that was it: Everyone exploded into action like something from Chuck Norris movie. Sam jerked backwards, out of the way of John who'd shot forwards in a whirl of rage and horror, and found himself restrained by Donovan. John had moved so quickly from the door to Dean that he managed to punch Dean in the jaw as Lestrade restrained the other Winchester and cuffed him. Sherlock just rubbed his nose, looking slightly peeved, but otherwise he didn't appear to be at all fazed by what just happened. He just narrowed his eyes, straightened his collar, and said, "Touchy."_

Sam gave a long heavy sigh and asked, "So, how do we get out of here?"

Dean huffed through his nose. "I dunno…convince them to let us go?"

Sam grinned enthusiastically at the idea, "Oh that's great, Dean!" the façade dropped, giving Dean an unimpressed look, "_How, _genius_?"_

Dean tried to wave his hands in a defensive fashion, but all he could do was yank the chain of the hand cuffs.

The door to the room suddenly swung open and Inspector Lestrade came in, holding the 'Wester Drumlins' file in his hand. He put the file down in front of them and braced his arms against the table, glaring down at both of them. "So…" Lestrade said as a long-drawn out word, "Who exactly are you? And _don't lie!"_

This wasn't the first time Dean and Sam had been locked in a small room together, face by an integrator, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Mostly, they were locked up because the FBI thought they were mass-murders – but come on, it wasn't their fault a couple of shape shifters took their form and went on a murdering spree – and before that, they'd been hunted down for credit card scams. Each time, they had escaped by sheer luck, or 'cunning' according to Dean, and Dean was determined that they'd get out this time, most likely by lying. However, Sam was not so sure. He'd seen the look Lestrade gave them when Sherlock revealed they were fake - betrayal - something he'd seen on Dean's face before. He felt ashamed, and realised that it was because he quite liked Lestrade. He was unlike other policemen they'd met; not just your standard 'good' cop, but there was a darkness inside him. Sam found he could relate to Greg Lestrade, and though they'd only known each other for a few minutes, he'd bonded with him.

Now, the fact that he lied to him and was meant to _keep on_ lying, Sam found he simply couldn't do it. Sam could only lie for a certain length of time before it weighed down on him like a cannon ball chained to his ankles. He wasn't like his brother in that respect, who could lie to everyone, even himself, because it was the _truth_ that weighed Dean down, not the lies. So, Sam did what he eventually did with everyone. He told the truth: "I'm Sam. This is my brother, Dean."

If Dean was betrayed, he didn't show it and he just nodded to Sam to say he was fine with telling the truth this one time. Of course they could never tell the whole truth – who would believe them? So when Lestrade asked about their occupation, Sam said simply; "We're hunters."

Lestrade raised an eye brow, "Hunters?" he questioned, sceptical. "And what do 'hunters', if that's what you really are, have to do with the Wester Drumlins case?"

Sam and Dean looked at each other. Dean turned to Lestrade, meeting his gaze with a hard steady one of his own that held no lies, and said, "A hunting buddy of ours went missing."

Lestrade's eyes bore down into Dean's for a long, long moment, and then they softened, before he turned his head away. When he spoke, he voice was quieter and less harsh than before, "So, you decided to take the law into your own hands?"

Suddenly, Lestrade was lost in the past, reminiscing of a time when he sat where the brothers were now sitting as a rebellious, determined young man. Although his case was different to these boys, he couldn't help but relate to how they were feeling. It was frustrating to sit and wait while nothing seemed to be getting done, and sometimes people wanted to do illegal things to make progress. He sighed, mumbling,"Jesus Christ."

That was it. He'd made his decision. Sherlock would sham him for 'letting sentiment distract him', and Donovan would be peeved that she was doing this again. But Sherlock was no trouble, and Donovan was loyal to Lestrade. With this in mind, Lestrade turned to the camera and made an odd hand gesture: his index finger laid over his middle finger and his little finger reached over his palm to his thumb.

Sam and Dean looked at each other in confusion. Lestrade turned back to them and, abruptly, he slammed the file close, making the two boys jump a little and spin back to him, "Okay, boys, I'm going to make you a deal."

Dean blinked, leaning his head forward, thinking he'd misheard, "What?"

"I recognize a bad guy when I see one." Lestrade explained, "You two are not bad people. So, I'll make you a deal, and God knows I could lose my job for this, so you two better be worth it."

"Why?" Sam asked.

"You're missing a friend, and decided to actually do something about it. I can relate." Lestrade paused. He looked sad for a moment, but then he shook himself and said, "Not to mention, I've never done things by the book, myself, with Sherlock and all. So, how about this: I let you go with a warning – let's pretend you gratified a bus stop – and you go on your merry way and never come back."

Sam blinked at him, "Really?"

"Really, really." Lestrade said, smiling, "But do me a favour; I should be arresting you for fraud _and_ for attempted theft _and _for assault." Dean looked sheepish at this, "So if you mention this to _anyone,_ both of you are getting thrown in prison."

Sam pointed up at the camera, "But what about…?"

"I told you: Sherlock and John aren't exactly in the rule book." Lestrade said, "And Donovan is wiping the security cameras as we speak. Just don't get arrested again. This is a one-time only offer."

"We'll take it." Dean and Sam said at once. They looked over at one another, partly out of relief, partly disbelief and partly of out of awe.

Lestrade unlocked the handcuffs and escorted them out. As the left, they noticed that Sherlock and John had vanished, and Donovan was stood on the other side of the room. She was drinking her coffee, looking up at the roof, clearly pretending they weren't there. Lestrade practically pushed them to the door, but Sam quickly turned and thanked him again before the brothers left, disappearing into the busy London streets.

Lestrade turned to Donovan, who was now looking at him with a raised eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.

"I was hoping I'd never have to do that." She told him, angrily. She shook her head with disbelief, "What were you thinking?!"

Lestrade ignored her question, and asked, "Did you send Sherlock and John after them?"

"Of _course_."

* * *

Dean and Sam took a Taxi to Newport. It was about an hour drive, and almost all the way, Dean was complaining that they'd left his beloved 1967 Chevrolet Impala _'Baby'_ behind. Soon, Sam was sick of it and chose to distract Dean by discussing the plan of action – not that anything ever went to plan for them, but it was worth it to be prepared. Of course, they left out details such as 'spirits' and 'demons' because of the driver, who was fairly large and looked as though he should be boxing rather than driving, and he may have been tempted to knock some 'sense' into them. The basic plan was to scout the area around the house first, to see if there was any signs of the supernatural and maybe question the locals about what they'd seen or heard. After that, they planned to go into the house, hopefully with a clearer idea of what they were after.

An hour later, the taxi dropped them off a street away from Field Park Avenue, and the driver turned to them, pointing up the at the street with his thumb.

"It's up there." He said gruffly.

Dean frowned at him. They'd paid for the journey - sort of - why should they stop before their destination? "Can't you take us all the way?"

The driver just stared at him like he was insane, and for a minute Dean thought he really _would _knock some sense into him, "No. Get out." he snapped, and the brothers quickly left, not wanting to start anything unnecessary. After all, Dean already had a fractured jaw, and they couldn't risk breaking it until they found Castiel again.

With a screech, the Taxi turned and rode away in the opposite direction of Field Park Avenue, very fast. "That guy looks like he could bash his way through anything." Sam muttered, "So something's got him spooked."

When they walked up to Fields Park Avenue, they found out why the driver and gone off like he had. The moment they stepped on the street, they were hit so abruptly with how silent it was that they stopped. No birds. No wind. No cars or signs of people anywhere. It was deathly and eerie place, and the two brothers felt a familiar cold chill settle on their shoulders: the same kind of chill they got usually before they were ambushed by demons.

After a pause, they continued, glancing about cautiously.

The place was once beautiful; with little red and white houses and small, well-trimmed gardens, as well cared for and tended to as the perfection of hand embroidery. But now, the houses looked ill, faded of colour, and the gardens were overgrown with weeds. When the brothers went to check one of the houses, they looked through the window to see all the furniture that might have once been there had been cleared out, and the place was void of human interaction. It was the same with all the other houses they checked. The place was completely deserted.

As they continued up the street, the cold chill they had turned into a tingling feeling, intensifying with each step they took. Neither of them could shake off the feeling that _something is very,_ very,_ wrong._

Finally, not being able to hold off what they were both thinking for much longer, Dean stopped. "Can you feel that?" he asked Sam, rubbing his arms anxiously.

Sam nodded, shivering, "Sort of a tingling inch? It's like nothing I've ever felt." He sniffed the air. It smelt of tree resin and damp soil, since it was raining earlier, and said, "There's no sulfur, neither."

"Not demons, then." Dean said. Suddenly, he was shuddering and rubbing his arms harder, "This feeling is _really_ bugging me."

"Well, the house is just up there." Sam said pointing up the road, where tall bushy trees grew like angry giants. "Let's keep going."

They lingered for a moment. _Something is very, very wrong, _playing on their minds, but at last they moved on, nearing the place where the trees grew large, casting a darkness over the house they protected. There, guarded by the tree giants was the Wester Drumlins estate, and at this place, the inching chill that had surrounded the brothers was at its strongest. The two of them paused outside the gate that sealed the way in, wary, with every fibre of their hunter instincts screaming: _No! Don't do it!_

Sam noticed a little white house opposite the Wester Drumlins estate with a light on and pointed out to his brother. They looked at each other once, and then walked over to the house together. They noticed as they got closer that the garden was also over-grown and full of weeds, like the other houses, and the windows were dirty with scratch marks on them. The door was once white, but now it looked almost green and the paint was peeling off to reveal brown wood beneath. Sam peered in the window again. _Does someone really live here?_ He thought: But Sam was not one to judge. He had never lived in a proper house for more than a few weeks, so what would he know? With that in mind, Sam knocked forcefully on the door.

There was silence on the other side. Sam looked at Dean.

"Maybe nobody's at home." Dean suggested. _Like everyone else, _was left unsaid, not wanting to remind each other that they were completely alone. Instead, Dean looked across the street at the Wester Drumlins site. He squinted, as for a moment, Dean thought he saw someone in the window, but when he blinked they were gone. He frowned, but figured it was the eeriness of the place getting to him. _You're just seeing things._

Sam knocked on the door again, a little louder, and this time there was an answer.

"Wh-who's there?" a quiet, frightened voice called out.

Dean spun his attention back to the door, and Sam was just as surprised.

"Police." Sam said.

The door slowly opened a tiny crack, where a pale green eye peered out at them, and then swung open the whole way. A woman was stood there. She was about forty and looked deathly pale, with large black bags under her eyes and her blonde hair hung in lifeless spindles against her head. Her eyes were bloodshot, as she'd been crying too much, and her arms were shaking. The woman shifted uncomfortably at the door, picking the loose frays at the bottom of her white jumper, which added to the paleness of her blotchy skin and reminded them of a ghost, "You're here about the disappearances, aren't you?"

Dean nodded.

She gave a shaky sigh, and murmured, "That's all anyone comes around here for, these days. Even the postman is too afraid to come."

"Where is everyone, Miss...?" Sam paused politely for a name.

"Sarah." Sarah replied, uncertain, as though she hadn't used her name in a long time, "Sarah Denton. And they're gone, all too scared to stay here – well except me and Mr Clark. He said he wouldn't leave without me, and I'm not leaving until I get my son back."

"Your son? March Denton?" Sam asked, remembering the boy from the file.

Sarah nodded sadly. She looked as though she was about to cry, as her bottom lip trembled.

Sam felt sorry for her. "I know this is difficult." He told her gently, "But was March acting strangely before he disappeared?"

Sarah frowned in thought, "Well…" she hesitated, "It's nothing really…"

"Sarah." Sam smiled reassuringly, "It's okay. Please, tell us. It could really help us find your son."

Sarah looked at him for a moment. She seemed to shrink further into her house, but she did not retreat completely. "He talked about monsters."

"Monsters?" questioned Dean, pretending to be professionally curious.

Sarah nodded, "I know. It's crazy, but he thought the Wester Drumlins estate was haunted, and that the monsters would come down at night and scratch the windows."

Dean and Sam looked at each other and then looked at the scratches they could see on the windows. Sarah followed their gaze.

"Oh – the cat did that, before it vanished." She didn't sound too sure, almost as if she was reassuring herself rather than the brothers. To Dean, she sounded like his mother when she told him that the monsters couldn't get him whenever he got frightened of the dark. Back then, of course, he hadn't known about his mother's secret hunting life, and now it made sense that she was a little wary - never quite sure if the monsters could get him or not.

Dean blinked at Sarah, when the statement about the cat registered, "They took the cat, too?" he asked, scandalised.

Sarah gave him a long condescending look, "…No." she said after a lengthy pause. She frowned at him, her hand bracing on the door as she considered slamming it in their faces, "No, I don't think the cat was taken. It probably just…" she shrugged helplessly, "…ran away."

Dean realised what he just said was completely ridiculous and nodded, "No – yes, I get that but, err – I _meant_ to say that the two could be connected."

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Sam glanced at his brother and then said to Sarah, "Miss Denton, did anyone called Jack pass by here?"

"Yes." Sarah replied, straightening up with recognition. She looked almost relieved to talk about something familiar, as the question about the cat had thrown her off, "He came about the disappearances too…but then he vanished as well."

"Well, we wondering; did Jack say anything odd to you?" Sam asked.

Sarah rolled her eyes upwards in thought, "Not really." she mumbled, "He just told me to stay indoors and keep safe, and to lock my door at night – things like that. He did ask about the Syndrome, though."

Dean frowned, "The what?"

"The Syndrome – that's what Mr Clark calls it." She rubbed her arms, "Can't you feel it?"

Sam and Dean looked at one another. The _Syndrome _was a very fitting name for the shivers that they were feeling, as it was as though they were ill in body and mind; disoriented from the moment they stepped onto the street. Sam nodded to Miss Denton. "Has it always been like this?"

Sarah shook her head, "No. Only since people started disappearing. Mr Clark said it was physiological. That we're just spooked out, and we're imagining the silence, and the shivers, and the stillness of the air." She frowned, looking at the ground, not believing a word she said, "That's what he said." She repeated. Sarah looked up again, "He's right, isn't he?"

Sam and Dean looked at one another again, both thinking the same thing. "Yes, miss." Sam said reassuringly, "Of course, miss. Now, one more thing. If you could tell us where Mr Clark lives, we'd be very grateful."

"Number 41." Sarah replied, sticking out a thin trembling arm to point. "Just down there."

Dean eyed her arm, disturbed by the thinness of it. "You okay there, miss?"

Sarah pulled her arm in close, like wounded animal would, and hugged it to her chest, "It's just the Syndrome."

Sam looked her up and down, deciding that she didn't look well at all, he said, firmly, "Sarah, we _will_ find March. Until then, you need to look after yourself. It would be better if you stayed with someone, but if you don't want to leave, then you should keep your doors locked."

Sarah nodded. "Okay." She whispered, her voice hoarse.

The brothers thanked her for her help and left. As soon as they were out of earshot of the house, a little way down the road towards Mr Clark's house, Dean cried out, "This place is wrong, wrong, and _wrong!"_

"Tell me about it." Sam agreed, "No wonder everyone left. Sarah should leave too – this 'Syndrome' thing looks like it's making her ill."

"You don't actually think it's some kind of mind-thing, do you?"

Sam gave his brother an unlikely look, "No, of course not. When is it _ever_ just a mind-thing? But, I'll tell you one thing; this is something we haven't come across before."

"It's a good thing I packed never possible defence we have." Dean said, with a forced grin. The cold sensation the place was giving him was making it difficult to smile, laugh, or treat anything without bitterness or sorrow.

The brothers headed down to the address Sarah had given them. Like all other houses, the garden was over-grown and the house was in terrible condition. The only people who had remained here were too afraid to step outside, let alone do house work, and this had caused a run down of what was once a beautiful, friendly street. The Winchesters made their way through the garden. The path was cracked and had cover growing over the stones, but it was still visible, and the bushes were a big enough distance a part for them to squeeze through – not without scratching themselves on the branches, however. When they made it through the jungle, they stopped at the door.

"Dean." Sam said quietly.

Dean looked at him, and noticed the closed look on his face, "What?"

"No insects."

Dean glanced round the forest that was the garden, and noticed that his brother was right. There were no insects to be seen, and no sounds that could possibly be insects to be heard. Dean gulped and murmured, "That's just messed up."

Sam sighed and knocked on the door. There was short a moment of silence before a stout man answered, poking his round head out the door, refusing to open it the whole way. Mr Clark just glared at them, "I already have _two_ of you in my house. How many more?"

Blinking, Dean said, "What?"

At that moment, Mr Clark opened the door wider and Sherlock and John appeared behind him. Dean resisted the urge to groan loudly. It was almost as though it had been rehearsed – as though the two of them planned to be there just to annoy him. Dean looked awkwardly at John, instinctively poking his jaw, and then at Sherlock, who he just had a staring content with. After a long while of static silence, Sam cleared his throat, as if it would clear away the awkwardness of the situation.

"It's good to see you again." Sam said, forcing a smile, "We didn't expect to see you here."

"That's all right." John said, returning the forced smile, "I suppose we should group together and share information, right?" he glanced up at Sherlock, who nodded, and the two of them stepped out into the garden. Sherlock marched ahead, onto the street.

John thanked Mr Clark for his time, who grumbled in response and slammed his door. John frowned at this, but then turned his attention to the brothers, "Sam and Dean, right? You coming?" He didn't wait for an answer but wandered through the garden to join with Sherlock.

The brothers followed shortly afterwards. Dean scowled suspiciously at Sherlock when they got onto the street. "Are you stalking us or something?" Dean questioned distrustfully, "Did that Greg send you after us? So much for trust."

"Please!" Sherlock snapped back at him, "You two aren't worth my time." Sam grabbed Dean's sleeve to stop him from marching forwards to punch Sherlock again. Sherlock boasted, "I'm a Consulting Detective. John is my friend. We're here to solve this case, so don't get in _my_ way."

"Consulting Detective?" Sam asked, at the same time as Dean coughed: "_You_ have _friends_?"

John sighed, "Listen, girls. We can stay here all night and argue, or we can actually do our jobs." He looked pointedly at Sam and Dean, "I don't trust you, but you're here for the same reason we are, so we might as well work together."

Sam scowled but nodded in agreement. Dean and Sherlock stared at John with disbelief.

"John!" Sherlock hissed, but John just waved a hand at him. Grudgingly, Sherlock mumbled, "Fine. Just don't get in my way."

Dean pulled a face at him, "Trust me. I'll be as far away from you as I can get."

It was nearly sunset by the time the four of them reached the house. Dean and Sherlock walked ahead, shooting glares like daggers at each other, and trying to push in front of the other. Neither of them were in a rush to reach Wester Drumlins, but both of them wanted to be in front of the other, as though it held some kind of royalty and respect to be in that position. John and Sam walked behind, and Sam was smirking, shaking his head.

"They're like children." Sam said, and that he suddenly realised how awkward it was to make conversation with people you didn't particularly want to be around.

Yet, John surprised him by saying, "No, they _are_ children." and the two of them laughed appreciatively.

Sam glanced over at John, feeling as though he should speak more now that the silence had been broken. "So…" he began, a little hesitant about making conversation with the man who fractured his brother's jaw, "What exactly _is_ a Consulting Detective?"

"Sherlock invented the job." John explained, "We basically solve crimes when the police don't have a clue, and Sherlock is fantastic at it. He can see through anyone and anything – of course, you already knew that."

Sam laughed nervously, "Yeah…It was amazing that he did that." He paused and frowned in his pensive, troubled way, looking at his shoes on the gravel, "John don't take this the wrong way, but I thought Sherlock was..." Sam was so distracted that he didn't notice that Sherlock and Dean had stopped in front of him and accidentally walked straight into Sherlock. Embarrassed, Sam mumbled a quick "Sorry."

The four of them were standing in front of the Wester Drumlins property, stood tall and looming, the darkness creeping in around it like a cloak. The silence had brought back the forgotten chilling sensation and although everyone was eager to break it, it felt forbidden in front of the glaring house. The four of them exchanged glances with one another, before Dean inched towards the gate. Sherlock, not one to back down from adventure and always having to be _first, first, first,_ bounded ahead of Dean, throwing himself against the gate. Dean scowled, scrambling after him. Suddenly it was a race to the top.

Sam looked at John. John switched on his torch, as the darkness was becoming more apparent, and pointed at the wall, were there was a man-sized hole leading to the gardens. Or rather, it was man-sized for John, but Sam was much taller and would have to bend down a little to fit through.

"Don't suppose you'd fancy going that way?" John asked, all polite as though he was offering a cup of tea.

Sam smirked, "Not at all."

They met up with Dean and Sherlock on the other side, who were still glaring at each other, before Dean looked away and rubbed his arms again. The inching sensation that stalked them was worse the closer they got to the house. It would be an agony to bear once they were inside. All of them were silent, unsure, hesitating. Sherlock was chewing his lip. Dean was shivering. John looked on with wide eyes, and Sam gulped loudly. In front of them, the house was a looming door to uncertainty, and from the top floor window, two eyes watched as the four of them entered it.

* * *

**Chapter Notes: **Wondering about the spelling of 'sulphur' or 'sulfur'? The traditional British spelling is 'sulphur' but the American spelling is 'sulfur' and I thought it'll be best, since the brothers are American, to spell 'sulfur' that way, and when the British characters speak, I'll spell it as 'sulphur.' Also, Google Maps is my best friend. I went on it to look at Fields Park Avenue and help me describe it. It's really useful if you can't get somewhere yourself. Oh, and fun fact about Google Maps for those of you who don't know already: There is a TARDIS that you can enter and explore around! It's really cool, but you can't go anywhere but the console. Honestly, I wish we could see more of the TARDIS to help us build an image of what it looks like beyond the console…but wouldn't that ruin the point of it being impossibly big?

Speaking of TARDIS's, we're heading into the more Whoy (?) part of the story. As you can tell, the Weeping Angels are one of the monsters I'm using (Cliché for SuperWhoLock, I know, but they really _are_ the perfect monsters to start off with) but I'm also going to use other villains from the series, but they won't be the ones you expect!


	3. Unseen Ones

**Disclaimer: **I wish I owned the Weeping Angels, because they are terrifying, but sadly, I do not.

* * *

**Three**

Unseen Ones

There was a path of ivy crawling up into the doorway, which was empty since the door itself had been kicked in and was sprawled on the floor in two pieces. It was half-buried under the mess of broken plaster and strips of lifeless wall paper, like it had made a grave for itself. Through the mess, a path had been cleared through years of people entering the house – the only evidence that people came in here before they disappeared.

One by one, Sherlock, Dean, John and Sam entered the first room of the house, all quiet with anticipation.

The room was bright since it was facing the west were the sun was setting. Orange light poured through tall, narrow windows and lit up the pale yellow wallpaper. The room was a beacon, luring them further and further into the confines of the house… However, when they went into the corridor, all the light seemed to shrink away. The four of them had to rely on their torches – or flashlights, in Sam and Dean's case – to guide them around the building.

Sherlock marched ahead and then came to an abrupt stop at the foot of the stairs. He began to rapidly move the light from his torch in different areas: wherever his eyes went, the light followed, as the great detective took in every detail as he would a single breath: a means to survive. He noticed a light switch, but it was clear it wouldn't work because the casing was cracked, as well as the fact that no one would have bothered to replace the light bulbs in a dis-used house. The detective paused and closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply taking in the scent of dust – specifically concentrate and stucco, which told him the house could have been built as far back as the 50's – and the thick smell felt wet in his nostrils.

Behind Sherlock, Dean was staring at him. To Dean, the detective seemed to be having a fit, waving his torch like that, and then when Sherlock suddenly stopped and inhaled, he just raised his eyebrow. He was about to tap Sherlock on the shoulder to make a snarky comment about wasting time, but Sherlock seemed to restart and he swung round and took a large stride into the next room. Dean didn't follow for a moment. He looked up the stair case, but he couldn't see anything beyond the top few steps. It made him nervous to have a blind spot, and his hand fell to the knife in his pocket. After a moment or so, Dean moved on, determined that there was nothing there.

For now.

John followed Dean, his footsteps silent even though he was wearing boots. His treads were perfectly co-ordinated, placed with extreme care, like he was walking through a mine field. He stopped, his torch light darting to the roof, when he thought he heard a creak from upstairs…_it's just the house, _he told himself. He rolled his shoulders back and stood up taller.

Behind him, Sam was glancing in every direction, looking over his shoulder from time to time to see if they were being followed – something that happened often on the hunts he went on with Dean. Each time Sam looked over his shoulder, there was nobody there, but still he couldn't shake off the daunting feeling that they were not alone.

Something hissed under his foot.

Sam jumped, but relaxed when he realised it was just him stepping on plaster. John had spun round in alarm, but Sam quickly held up his hands to signal that it was only him. John's shoulders sagged in relief, and then he turned towards the second room where Dean and Sherlock had already entered. Sam paused by the door. It was much lighter in the second room, much to his relief because the darkness was beginning to grate on his nerves. However it wasn't the only aspect of the house that was grating against Sam's nerves; the Syndrome feeling seemed to become stronger the closer they were to this particular room, and it made Sam hesitate to enter it.

"Do you feel that?" Sam asked John in a quiet voice, barely breaking the silence.

John blinked over at him, "Feel what?"

"That…tingling feeling." Sam replied, though it was hardly a tingling sensation any more. Now it was as clear and heavy as a thick coat over his shoulders; a great mass weighing down on him. Surely John could feel it? Everyone else had.

John gave him the answer he was not expecting. He gave him a reassuring smile, "It's probably just your imagination." He replied and moved to follow Sherlock and Dean into the second room.

This room was a greyish green overall compared to the other. There was a large window with no glass that showed the view of a greenhouse and, like every other garden they had seen today, it was untidy and growing out of control. The wall paper was once a rich blue with a repeated white flower pattern, but over time it faded to a dismal grey and was hanging off the wall. As the four of them explored the room, the floorboards creaked and moaned in protest.

On the far wall, where the wall paper had been ripped away to show a bright green beneath, there was a strange message scrawled messily in black ink:

BEWARE THE WEEPING ANGELS. OH AND DUCK. NO REALLY. DUCK! SALLY SPARROW. DUCK NOW!

LOVE FROM THE DOCTOR (1969)

Dean smirked when he saw it. _Not your average love confession, _he thought, _most people write their initials in a heart._ Of course, Dean would know. He had done it with quite a few girls himself, especially in High School. He never really paid attention to meaning behind it however: he was young and wanted excitement between hunts and he knew that girls liked a touch of romance; although the message on the wall was anything but romantic. And what was that about ducks?

Meanwhile, Sherlock began to study the scrawling. He moved his head to peer at it from different angles, the gears in his mind grinding away. He cocked his head to the side, and imagined the wall was covered in wall paper. If he was to reach up to the top and pull the paper down, the word 'BEWARE' would appear first. Then if he continued ripping the wall paper off, the next words would appear in the order they made sense in._ Could be a coincidence, _Sherlock thought, _but the universe is rarely so lazy._ He leaned forwards and took a large sniff of the ink. Sherlock licked his thumb and rubbed the base of the letter 'B' and it smudged. He sensed that the other three were watching him and smiled at that, liking to be the centre of attention.

As usual, John was waiting patiently for his friend, but part of him wondered why Sherlock was trying to deduce a _wall, _of all things. Sam was watching Sherlock, perplexed yet fascinated by what he was doing, trying to match this man with the detective he read about in his childhood books. Dean was just staring at Sherlock like he was insane.

At last, Dean quipped, "What are you doing, Kojak? Looking for intelligent life?"

"Any life found here would be far more intelligent than yours." Sherlock replied immediately and pushed himself away from the wall, and said, "This is Carbon ink. It's long-lasting and doesn't fade in sunlight, but it smudges in wet conditions. The words were placed here as the house was being built, before the wall paper went up, because they were placed in a fashion that would mean someone would discover them and read them in the right order."

There was a moment of silence where Sherlock's words were allowed to sink in.

"So, what are you saying?" Sam asked, "That someone is trying to warn us?"

"About the 'Weeping Angels'?" John said doubtfully, "It sounds like an emo rock band, in which case we _should_ beware."

Sam grinned at him.

Dean was looking at the wall, intrigued by the message, when he felt a breath of air brush against his neck. At first he ignored it – _it's nothing -_but it happen again and again, like someone desperate for attention. Dean looked back down the corridor then froze.

The woman was stood there; the one dressed in white from his dream; the one who gave him Death's ring. She almost the same as she did before: she was still wearing the white dress and the white orchid was still tucked behind her ear. However, her hair style was different. Instead of her bronze curls spilling over her shoulders, they were tied back in a long ponytail. Upon seeing her, Dean felt a throbbing in his chest and winced.

"Dean." The woman said urgently, "Look behind you."

Dean did not. He stared at the woman, wondering if the others would see her – if they _could _see her. So far they hadn't reacted, but Dean didn't want to check in case the woman vanished when he turned away.

"Look behind you." She repeated, louder this time. When Dean didn't respond, she began making her way towards him. Dean held his ground, not wanting to show that he was a little intimidated by the strange woman. As she approached him, the throbbing in his chest hurt more and more, and he bit his lip against the pain until it was almost unbearable – at which point the woman passed through him like air. Dean spun round, but she was gone. The only thing that was behind him was a large window which lead to a greenhouse and in the greenhouse; surround by a fog of leaves; was a lonely grey statue.

The statue was an angel, with large wings sprouting out from its back. It appeared to a woman, with a long dress that, even though it was stone, appeared to be flowing around her ankles, which were lost in the overgrown garden. Delicate hands covered her face, as though she was weeping.

Dean glanced back down the corridor where the nightmare-woman had been, but she was no longer there. He felt someone touch his shoulder and tensed up, spinning round to see Sam.

"Whoa." Sam murmured, shocked at the movement, "You okay?"

Dean looked at him for a moment. Why hadn't Sam seen the woman? Who was she? What does she want? At last, he nodded, "Yeah, yeah. Fine."

Sam raised his eyebrow, "Are you sure? You zoned out for a second there."

"Yeah, I'm fine. I was…" Dean hesitated. Lying to Sammy felt wrong, but it didn't mean he should tell him the truth. "Thinking." He finished. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't exactly the truth either.

"God help us all."

Dean spun round and glared at Sherlock. "I heard that!"

As John rolled his eyes at the two men's bickering, he heard the sound of rustling leaves and turned to the greenhouse. He frowned, eyes squinting, and without turning around, he called out to the others, "Um…Guys?"

No one had heard him. Dean was busy glaring at Sherlock, while the detective returned the gaze neutrally. Sam was holding his brother back by the arm.

"Dean – don't." Sam was saying, "Not again."

"Listen to your brother. He clearly has a slightly above average IQ, which is _a lot_ more than your own, and it's unnecessary to start any stupid brawls, especially since I'm trying to do you a favour. Stop thinking, Dean Winchester, it is both physically painful and hideous watching you try."

When Dean managed to untangle the mess of words that Sherlock spat out at him – halfway through he registered a quiet "hey, men?" but chose to ignore it for what the detective was saying – he stopped short and glared at Sherlock. He snapped, pointing his finger close to Sherlock's face, "Don't insult Sammy!"

There was a pause, in which Sam frowned and Sherlock just stared.

"Um…" Sam said at last, "He wasn't."

Sherlock huffed, "Moron."

Meanwhile, John was looking between the three of them. He didn't really want to use his soldier-voice, but it appeared he might have to; since the three of them where so far gone in their argument to even notice that he was trying to get their attention. He waved his hands in exasperation and tried again, a little louder, "Guys? Hello?"

Dean growled at Sherlock, "You're a dick, you know that?"

"Yes, yes…as you are keen on reminding us all." Sherlock drawled, "Are you _capable_ of doing anything else?"

"Gentlemen!" John barked, his voice so commanding that it could not be ignored. It reminded Dean of his father, and he almost shivered, looking over to where John was stood.

Everyone had now stopped talking, and was looking over at John.

John looked between them and when he was sure he had their full attention, he turned, and pointed his torch at the gardens, "Was that statue like that before?"

Everyone was silent. They all stared at the statue. Sam's eyes were wide. Sherlock's eyes were narrowed. John was squinting, shifting from one foot to another. Dean was gawking a little, his eyes big.

The statue of the angel was stood in the greenhouse, but it was a lot closer than any of them remembered. But that wasn't the strangest part – its hands, which had covered its eyes, were now lowered, and two freakish eyes with no pupils were staring back at them.

Dean took out his Colt M1911A1, "No. It's moved."

"Don't be absurd!" hissed Sherlock, but for the first time that day, he didn't sound sure of himself. He looked confused, and he was agitated because of that.

"Beware the Weeping Angels." Sam murmured, reciting what was on the wall. He glanced over at Dean, then at John, who was staring at him.

"You don't actually think…" He stopped, glanced over his shoulder at the statue, and then back again. John shook his head, "No. We probably just imagined it."

Their attention snapped back to the statue as they heard leaves in the greenhouse rustling. But it was just the wind, and the statue hadn't moved. Maybe they had just imagined it…

The wind became blustery, picking up the leaves in the room and swirling them around. The bushes outside bent double and flung about; the gate outside rattled; the leaves in the room began to swirl. It was terrifying after the place was so still and lifeless a moment before. John frowned, as he thought he heard an odd echo on the wind that sounded as though it was coming from all around them, but then it seemed to focus in one place. John turned around, "What the hell is that noise?"

The others turned too. Dean and Sam confused, as they just thought it was just the wind. Sherlock was sharp and focused, for his hearing was trained to be better than that of Dean's, John's or Sam's and he heard something else on the wind, like a warping metallic sound. He also heard shuffling on the floorboards and within a millisecond his brain told him: _None of us are moving._

Sherlock turned, but there was nothing. _That's strange. I could have sworn I heard…_

A creak.

Sherlock twirled back around to come face to face with a pair of cold, dead eyes. The angel statue stood nose-to-nose with Sherlock, its teeth sharpened into two rows of stone fangs, barely a millimetre away from piercing his skin. Sherlock let out a quiet, strangled sound and stared, wide-eyed with disbelief, fear and shock, into the cold stone eyes of the angel and found himself unable to look away.

"What the hell?" Sam breathed, backing up.

John pulled out his Browning L9A1, and pointed it at the statue, only hesitating when logic questioned his actions, "How does it do that? It's just a statue."

Dean's hand gripped his knife out of instinct – but what then? Dean couldn't _stab_ a statue. He thought about salt, or iron, but how could he know what to do without knowing what he was fighting? He glanced over at Sam. "Sammy?"

Sam didn't look at him. He was stock-still, staring hard at the statue. He shook his head: He was just as clueless as Dean was.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had taken a small step back. He shifted the torch in his hands and pointed it at the angels face, lighting up the horrifying snarl with a pale ghostly light. Then he gingerly reached his hand out towards the angel.

John sucked in a sharp breath, "Sherlock…"

Sherlock touched the angel. His slender fingers delicately traced the wrinkles around the statues snarling mouth. "That's not…" he pulled his hand back sharply.

Sam twitched at the movement.

John licked his dry lips, "What is it?"

"It's granite." Sherlock said, shaking his head slowly, "But it can't…"

Dean stared at him with disbelief, "Wait – are you saying that that _thing_ is…" Dean was briefly distracted by his flashlight flickering "…stone?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again.

"We should get out of here." Sam said.

"I agree." John said, looking at Sherlock nervously, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded. He began to back away from the statue and come round to where the others where the stood. He saw that the angel had moved from the greenhouse to next to him in less than a second. _Impossible! Nothing could move that fast…_ He turned to John – sometimes John would say just the right thing; the thing that would help him solve the mystery. John seemed to sense that Sherlock was looking at him because he looked up at his friend and shook his head. Dean and Sam turned and glanced at him also, and then…

"Jesus _Christ!" _

The angel had moved again. It was barely a metre away from them, reaching out towards them with its sharp claws like it wanted to carve into them.

"Every time we look away it's closer!"

"Okay then." Sam gulped, nodding to reassure himself, "Don't look away. There's just one, so if one person at least is looking in its direction the whole time, it can't follow us right?"

"That might be a bit of a problem." John breathed. He cleared his throat, struggling for air as he tried to keep his breathing quiet and steady, like he would have done in the war. "We only have torches and it's almost night-time." He cleared his throat again, "…It's going to be a bit difficult to see it, don't you think?"

It was true. The sky was becoming a mauve-blue now that the sun was gone. The twilight was their only source of natural light. What was worse, the moment John pointed this out, every light in the room decided to flicker all at once.

John shook his head in astonishment, "Oh, that's not fair."

"Any one got any bright ideas?" Dean asked, a tense smile on his face. His flashlight flickered again and he gulped.

"Time and a place, Dean." Sam said, breathing heavily.

There was a rustle, and everybody stopped.

Something was moving behind them.

"Don't turn around!" a voice cried, suddenly, making Sam jump who was closest to it. He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, "Don't blink, okay? You're doing great. Here, take this." Sam felt him push something thin and cool into his hand, and then the stranger gently grabbed his elbow and lifted his arm up. Sam saw that he was holding a hand mirror, with the reflective side facing the angel.

"What are you doing?" Sam hissed, resisting the urge to flinch.

"Just use the mirror." The stranger said, not answering his question, "Oh, and don't look into its eyes."

"Why?!" cried John, confused and alarmed.

"You'll thank me later." was the reply.

Sam used the mirror like the man said had and held it up between him and the glaring eyes of the Weeping Angel, so he could no longer see its face. When the statue showed no signs of movement, his shoulders shagged in relief. He risked a look at their saviour.

He moved swiftly and mysteriously, with a skip in his step, his long purple-brown frock coat flapping about. He wore a grey waistcoat beneath it, and black trousers and black ankle-high boots. He also wore a brown bow-tie and a blue shirt. There was a strange contraption over his chest, held there by a leather strap over his right shoulder. It was mostly black with a grey circular panel in the centre that appeared to be a light of some sort, although it was switched off. There was a mirror attached to the top with a flexible tube, which jutted out over the man's left shoulder. The man glanced in the mirror constantly.

Dean had also been handed a mirror, and was looking between the stranger and the Weeping Angel cautiously, almost questioning which one would attack first.

"I only have two spare mirrors." He looked apologetically at John and Sherlock, who just stared back and then turned to Sam and Dean, "Two of my companions left those behind, so be careful!"

"Look at us…" Dean scoffed, "Using mirrors like we're fighting frigging Medusa!"

"Nice comparison, only Medusa turns _you_ to stone when you look at her, but when you look at an Angel, _they're_ the ones who turn to stone!" He pushed his brown hair back from his eyes. Raising a finger, he declared, "Now, we need to get out of here before it gets too dark, or the mirrors will be useless." He looked pointedly at the torches they were carrying, and nodded to them with his large chin, "And those won't do you any good, I'm afraid. They can drain the light out of them."

"Who are you?" Sam asked.

"The Doctor." The other swiftly answered, "Now, no more questions. Make your way out the door, I'll cover you."

No one moved, either too scared or too distrusting; it was hard to tell. However, that was until Sam moved, deciding to put his trust into this stranger, and he inched towards the door, constantly pointing his mirror at the statue. On instinct, Dean followed his brother, doing the same as him. The Doctor nodded encouragingly, turning his back on the angel. He adjusted his mirror so he could walk forwards and watch the angel at the same time. He gave John a friendly tap on the shoulder, and the man started, but was encouraged to move. After John began to move, Sherlock began to stalk out as well.

When Sam and Dean made it out of the room, they turned to run out of that house forever, but then they jolted to a stop. Another Weeping Angel was blocking the way out, its teeth bared hungrily and its arms out stretched so they couldn't get around it.

"Upstairs!" the Doctor cried behind them.

Watching the statue with wide eyes, Sam moved up the steps first, followed by Dean and then John. Not one of them dared to look away.

Sherlock lingered and glared the Doctor, "What's _happening?_" he demanded.

"You're about to die. Now _run!"_ the Doctor shoved Sherlock into a running motion up the stairs and then followed himself, using the mirror to watch the two Weeping Angels.

Sam and Dean had made it to the top of the stairs, where the steps spilt into two, one going left and the other going right. The brothers steered right, only to stagger to an unexpected stop. Dean gave strangled cry, and Sam sucked in a sharp breath: another two angel statues were there, teeth bared and snarling. In their shock, they dropped the mirrors they were holding and they shattered into a million tiny pieces.

John ran up next and jerked to a stop. "Oh, God." He breathed, "Oh my God."

"Not that way!" called the Doctor. He was at the top of the stairs now, blindly shoving Sherlock up the opposite steps, ever taking his eyes of the angels behind him. The two Weeping Angels from downstairs where now halfway up them, reaching out towards him with their talons. The Doctor said to Sam, Dean and John, "Walk backwards! Don't blink."

The men did as they were told, too fearful to do anything else. The Doctor guided them, giving them the appropriate 'step up' and the reassuring 'it's okay. You're doing great' at all the right moments. "Now do me a favour." He said, "Watch those two behind me."

They did. Their eyes were burning and they all wished that Sam and Dean hadn't dropped the mirrors - though they didn't understand what was happening or how, it was clear that they were helpful to them and he missed them.

Sam asked, "How many are there?"

"Just four." The Doctor reassured, walking up the rest of the steps and turning towards Sam, Dean, John and Sherlock so he could watch the Angels that were already upstairs through his mirror. "Trust me, I've been here before. Okay, now walk into the next room."

"Is there a way out?" Dean asked.

"Yep." The Doctor breathed, "Now, go."

The five of them turned and continued to the next room, placing their trust in the mysterious man who had come to their aid to continue protecting them from the Weeping Angels. The Doctor followed quickly afterwards. Dashing through the doorway, he pressed his back against the wall and pulled the mirror into the doorway. He yelped. All four of the Weeping Angels were just a hair away from the mirrors surface. Everyone had stopped in the first room, unable to keep running because the doorway was blocked by a large blue box.

John scowled, breathing in and out deeply, "Where the hell..." he breathed, "...did _that _come from?"

"Get in!" the Doctor cried, desperation making his voice break.

Dean just stared at him, certain that this man was crazy, "Dude, we ain't all gonna fit in _that._"

The Doctor snapped his fingers and the doors to the box swung inwards. They couldn't see what was inside – it was all dark like a black screen. "Just get in!" the Doctor cried again, desperately, for his eyes were raw and red from not blinking, and in the mirror, the angels were just inches away from him.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the strange blue box. His well-trained ears could hear the mechanic whir of machinery coming from within it. Curiosity getting the better of him, Sherlock bounded forwards and leapt inside, disappearing from view. The others waited for him to come back out, or for him to say something, but there was nothing from the detective.

"Sherlock?" John called, but there was still no response.

Sam, who was the closest to the box, poked his head inside. He was quiet for a moment and then cried, "Oh my _GOD_!"

Dean and John exchanged looks then tumbled into the box after Sam.

The Doctor allowed himself a smirk, not taking his eyes off the angels. Then he ran after them, constantly looking into the mirror and seeing the statues snarl at him from the doorway away. He ran into the box and the doors snapped shut behind him.

There was a moment when nothing happened. Then there was a hollow clunk resonating from within the box. The blue box made a loud groaning noise - it was as if it was breathing. When in breathed in, a rattling groan, the box became see-through, and then it breathed out, and it became completely visible again. With each raspy breath it faded slightly, then returned less and less, until the box disappeared completely as if it had never been. The noise lingered in the house for a moment after the box had gone, echoing around the rooms, swirling through the leaves, but then everything fell into nothingness. The house was still and empty, except for the statues that moved in the dark.

* * *

**Chapter Notes: **I have to thank TheDavethebiker on Youtube for helping me with this chapter. He has a video called 'DOCTOR WHO…BLINK FILMING LOCATION' which helped me describe the inside of the house in this chapter. I had to change some details to make it coexist with the Wester Drumlins we saw in the original episode, but it was nothing major. I also discovered that Wester Drumlins is actually called Fields House and is currently listed for refurbishment. Half of the house has people living there (personally, I'd be freaked).

The "contraption" the Doctor is wearing is the same one he uses in the series 5 episode 'The Doctor and Vincent' to see the Krafayis with. I used it simply because it had a mirror the Doctor could use to look behind him.

Thanks for reading, everyone.


	4. A Synergy Of Sorts PART 1

**Disclaimer: **My story, not my characters.

**A.N:** This chapter has been spilt into two parts for easier reading. Special thanks to reviewer74 for being the first to review this story.

* * *

**Four**

A Synergy Of Sorts – PART 1

With the line of work Dean and Sam shared, hunting the freakishly weird on a daily basis, it was difficult to be _really_ shocked by something. Most of the time, the most shocking thing to happen would probably be considered normal for someone else. For example, Sam actually buying pie when he went shopping. Nothing typically 'normal' ever happened to the Winchester brothers. They'd seen it all. Demons, Hell and Heaven, fairies, vampires and even creatures that hadn't been named yet. So what could shock them? Sure, there were moments were they'd think 'what the hell just happened?' but there was nothing that shocked them _beyond_ confusion; breaking down the fabrics of reality they had sewn up to support the mess they called their lives.

Until now, that is.

They weren't the only ones astounded by what they saw. John's leg had given way and, swearing, he stumbled, reaching out to take hold of the railing and clinging to it. Then he stared at it, all logic telling him that it couldn't exist. Meanwhile, Sherlock was stood ramrod straight, a little further in front of everyone as he had charged in and stumbled to a stop, and his eyes were wide. Dean would think that Sherlock and John were definitely not having a good day, if his mind hadn't gone completely blank. Next to him, Sam was gawking, wanting to speak but was unable to find words that made sense to describe what he was seeing.

It was a short moment before the Doctor jumped inside and the doors slammed shut behind him of their own accord. The Doctor weaved round them, mumbling apologetic 'excuse me's, until he had crossed the platform they were stood on. He threw the strange contraption off his chest and breathed a sigh of relief, before running to the centre of the room to a large hexagonal panel.

At last, Sam found his voice, "It's…_bigger_ on the _inside_."

The gigantic room Sam, John, Dean and Sherlock had found themselves in was mostly blue and silver in colour; mostly metal and flashing lights. The roof looked like a cocoon, with ridges that curled into the centre, joining to the panel that the Doctor was currently dancing around. He flicked a few switches, mumbling things to himself. There was a hollow clunk and the whole room shifted. It was a gentle movement but it was strong enough to sway them. Once again, they heard the rasping, groaning sound that they had previously mistaken for wind. The cylinder above the panel glowed green and began to move up and down as the machine – the only word that made sense to describe it - rasped. Eventually, it stopped with another clunk and everything became quiet.

The Doctor spun round on his heel to face the others. He clapped his hands together, "Well then." He said, "Glad we got out of that one!"

He was met with four bewildered stares.

"Who _are_ you?" John asked, finally managing to push himself back to his feet. The phantom limp in his leg didn't bother him as much as it once did; but there were times, when he'd just escaped from danger, when his sleeping injury awoken, almost as if it sensed it was a good time to fall limp.

The Doctor gave John a look somewhere between puzzled and amused. "I told you: I'm the Doctor."

Dean shifted uneasily, the gun under his jacket moving against him in a somewhat reassuring fashion. He scowled at the Doctor. "Yeah, and exactly _what_ are you?"

The Doctor grinned at him, "Oh, you're good!" he said, meaning every word, "Most people don't pick up on that straight away. And I thought the TARDIS was a give big away!"

John raised his eyebrows. He was hearing a lot of strange words today. First it was the 'Weeping Angels' the emo rock band, and now the 'TARDIS' that sounded a lot like the name of a social drug. He imagined Billy Wiggins and many other of Sherlock's band of drug addicts would know what it is – Sherlock himself would probably know, and John looked questioningly at his friend. Sherlock hadn't been on drugs since Charles Magnussen was at large, a few months prior to this, but that didn't mean he didn't know what was what. But when John looked at Sherlock, Sherlock just looked…lost; like an adventurous child who had wandered too far into the woods and didn't know the way back home. John narrowed his eyes at this.

It was Sam who asked the question everyone was wondering. "What's a…TARDIS?"

This made the Doctor's grin widen like a twelve-year-old boy with a bag of sweets. He stretched out his arms, gesturing to the open space the men had found themselves in, "This is my TARDIS!" he proclaimed with great pride, "It stands for 'Time And Relative Dimension In Space'."

The four men found themselves staring round with wonder. Sam was impressed. Dean looked a little intimidated. John was amazed. Sherlock was just jealous; he stood up straighter to make himself look taller and glared down at the Doctor. The Doctor just looked between the four of them, his smile never wavering.

Dean narrowed his eyes and looked back at the Doctor, "Space?" he echoed. He paused, looking the Doctor up and down as his hand moved to the gun under his jacket. He couldn't believe what he was about to ask – not even with his ridiculous life filled with demons, angels, God, time travel, and monsters of all kinds: _This_ was something he was certain could not exist. Then again, he'd been wrong before.

He said, "Are you an alien?"

"I am!" The Doctor replied. He clapped his hands together, "Okay with that, are we?"

His question was answered with a gun in his face.

"Okay. Not quite what I was expecting."

Sam was startled by Dean's fast reflexes. Usually, he'd support his brother in this kind of affair – it was their job, after all – but he couldn't help but feel torn. The Doctor had saved their lives, hadn't he? Didn't they owe him the benefit of the doubt? Sam said, in a cautious voice, "Dean."

"He's not human, Sam!" Dean cried.

"Neither is Cas. Or Benny." Sam retorted. He paused and added, "Neither was Amy."

Dean winced at that. He still felt guilty about Amy, even though he was sure he'd done the right thing. For a moment, he felt angry at Sam for using it against him, but when his rational side washed over the flames of rage, he realised that Sam had a point: the Doctor hadn't done anything wrong, unlike Amy, but Dean ensured himself that the second he did, he would put down him like he'd done so many others. At last, Dean lowered his gun.

"Guns…" The Doctor hissed like it was a curse word. When he saw Dean slip the gun back under his jacket and give a nod to show that he wouldn't shoot, the Doctor gave a grateful smile to Sam. "I like you. What's your name?"

"Sam." Sam replied, looking up and down at the strange man. He wasn't naïve; he knew better than to trust a monster from his times with Ruby – but this man had saved them and hadn't done anything to threaten them. Yet. Sam nodded to his brother, "This is my brother, Dean."

Dean nodded grudgingly.

The Doctor gave a tight smile and turned to look over at John and Sherlock. John was watching everyone in the room with caution, his features cooled into his soldier-face. Sherlock was still glaring as he took a large stride forwards and, sticking out his hand, he practically spat his name in the Doctor's face; "Sherlock Holmes."

The Doctor paused. The smile on his lips almost slipped from his face, but he quickly caught it. "Really?" he said, shaking Sherlock's hand respectively. He looked over at John, who had pushed himself away from the railing and was taking the few heedful steps to join them. "And you must be John Watson?"

John reached to shake his hand, his mask hardening while still remaining polite, "Yes, but…how do you know that?" The Doctor looked between Sherlock and John, a little panicked, but he cooled his features when John said, "Have you read the blog too?"

The Doctor nodded quickly, "Yes, yes. _Great _stuff. Very…" his mouthed worked, "…bloggy."

John was a little alarmed. Sure, he knew his blog was popular but knowing _extraterrestrials _were reading it – then John stopped that thought because: Aliens? How could he believe that? Surely this was some strange dream? Perhaps Sherlock had drugged him again? Whatever the case, this illusion sure beats the ones he had about the war.

"Now, I'll take you lot home." The Doctor said, spinning on his heels and bounding back to the console. The Doctor pushed a lever facing the door and the TARDIS made a whirring cry. The lights in the room intensified as if the TARDIS had suddenly awakened.

The others took this as a welcome, and went further into the TARDIS. As they went further into the ship, they could see a silver balcony stretching around the room, which could be reached by silver steps. Sherlock followed the balcony with his eyes, turning around, and seeing that there were two other doors on either side and above the main ones, leading into the unknown. To the right of him, there were more steps leading into a large chamber that opened up below the console. Sherlock realised that where they were stood was barely a portion of the whole TARDIS.

Meanwhile, John and Sam were looking at the console, where all the controls were. Sam was looking at the one of the two screens that hung out from the silver band below the cylinder. At first he thought they were computer screens, but there was no keyboard anywhere. The controls for the TARDIS, John observed, looked almost patchwork – like remnants of different machines fixed together. They were not just in the centre; there were two side panels which had switches and controls also. John moved aside as the Doctor jumped from the centre panel to the left side panel, flicking a switch, and then back again.

The Doctor said, "Where are you living?"

John was looking up at the spinning panels above the console as they increased in speed with the more buttons the Doctor pressed. It was unlike any of the machines he'd seen during his time with the military. At the Doctor's question, John looked over at the man, a little confused, "Um…22B1 Baker Street – but why?"

Where Dean was, at the top of the balcony steps, he could see the whole Console Room. He felt the steps vibrate beneath him and heard the TARDIS take a deep trembling breath and he felt very small, like he was in the belly of a beast; sheltered but nerve wrecking. He turned and looked at the Doctor, "Wait." He said, his curiosity peeking, "You can take us there? In here?"

The Doctor grinned. He walked around the console again, slapped Sherlock's hand before he could press the switch, giving him a scolding look, and punched a large button beside Sam. "The TARDIS…" he told them all, "…can travel anywhere in time and space. Push a lever and you and end up _everywhere!_"

On the word 'everywhere', he threw hands out and the TARDIS chimed as though it was a part of him. Then the room jerked to right.

John fell into the console with a grunt as Dean fell down the steps.

"Whoa!" Sam cried as he fell back into his brother, bouncing off him and almost toppling over if he hadn't grabbed the side panel just in time. When Sam hit Dean, Dean was thrown into one of the black leather chairs, and he gripped it with all his might as the room tipped and spun, gritting his teeth.

Dean growled furiously at the Doctor, "What the hell are you doing?!"

The Doctor laughed. "Trust me." was all he said.

Sherlock tumbled into the console beside John and gripped it tight. The Doctor bounced to his side and whooped. He gave Sherlock a winning grin. Sherlock couldn't suppress the tiniest of smiles; even if nothing made sense here, he couldn't doubt the thrill of his heart pumping and the blood shooting down his veins. The TARDIS tipped again, this time to the left, and John almost fell to the floor if Sherlock hadn't grabbed his arm just in time. They stared at one another, and then burst into hysterical laughter. Dean did fall, however, right off the chair he was on and to the floor. He slid right across the room, past the others. He almost fell off the platform if he hadn't grabbed the railing. Now he was hanging with nothing beneath him.

He swore, "Son of a…"

The TARDIS whirred loudly, blocking out the rest of his words, and the Doctor grinned. "Don't swear in front of her!" he said mock-scolding, but Dean was too busy clinging for his life to hear him. Then, with one last clunk, the TARDIS tipped upright to its original position. John, Sherlock and the Doctor bumped against the console, almost hitting their heads, while Sam slumped to the ground with a grunt.

Sam puffed out an excited breath. "That was…that was…that was…"

"Awful!" Dean shuddered, picking himself up slowly. He looked like a cat that had just been dunked in water. "God _damn it!_ Don't ever do that again!"

The Doctor scowled, "There's always one…" he muttered, but brightened up instantly afterwards.

John looked between them. He was breathing heavily, but was grinning. "That was ridiculous. That was just….ridiculous. Am I dreaming?"

The Doctor smiled at him, "Nope. And you're home, now." He said and then pointed at the door and clicked his fingers. The doors swung open with a creak. Through them, there was no eerie house with frightening angel statues that moved when you weren't looking. No. Now there was a chocolate-brown room with warm carpets and creamy orange lampshades.

"We've moved." Sam breathed, staring with disbelief, "We've actually moved."

"Now, off you go all of you." The Doctor said gently, though his feet were firmly planted by the console, "I'll be out in a second. I just need to, er…" He smacked his lips together, "I need to configure the, um, fez calibration. See you in a second."

"Whatever." Dean hissed, "Just get me off this thing."

Dean literally _ran_ off the TARDIS and, with a knowing smirk, Sam followed. John and Sherlock left soon after, drawn to the familiarity of Sherlock's flat as flies would be drawn to the beauty of light, and the doors creaked shut behind them. The Doctor's smile, that was so perfectly carved and crafted for the four strangers on his ship, had now vanished. His face looked suspicious, dark and shadowy, with a secret hidden beneath the surface. His eyes had lost their childish sparkle and looked like the eyes of an old man.

The TARDIS made a wailing sound. A single anxious note repeated again and again and again, until the Doctor soothed the TARDIS, patting it gently on the console.

"I know, I know." The Doctor whispered to it, "I didn't think it was true. Something's not right here. It feels wrong…_very_ wrong." He chewed his bottom lip in thought. "But I can't just…leave. They'll be suspicious."

On the screen in front of him, a number appeared with a quite beep to alert its presence. The Doctor looked up at it curiously. He knew straight away that it wasn't a traditional Earth number - those things are useless to the rest of the universe - but these were Space-Time Coordinates. Inside each of the four digits there were millions of tiny numbers that lead to a location and time zone somewhere in universe. The TARDIS used them to travel, and sometimes call people from different eras. In fact, just last week, the Doctor had a very long and interesting conversation with Florence Nightingale.

"Help line?" the Doctor said with a smile. He picked up the phone next to him and pressed it to his ear. He could hear the phone dialling the co-ordinates. He had a strong feeling he knew who it was, and the TARDIS was right to call them. If anyone could help, and would help no questions asked, it was _her._ "Calling the missus, are we?"

After a moment, there was a click on the other end of the line, and a woman's voice answered, "This is the Starlight Baths and Salon. How may we help you?"

The Doctor raised an eyebrow at that, but he continued all the same because he trusted his TARDIS more than any other living creature, and his TARDIS was never wrong. The Doctor said to the woman on the line, "I'm looking for a woman who goes by the name River Song. Tell her it's the Doctor."

There was a short pause where the Doctor could hear the woman rustling through some papers. "I'll put you through now." the voice said eventually and there was another pause where some murmured chatter in the background could be heard. The Doctor tapped a quick rhythm on the console as he waited.

At last, another woman's voice came through. It was light, mysterious and cheeky, as well as a bit sad. The voice said, "Hello, Sweetie."

"Hi, honey." The Doctor replied, "The Starlight Baths? Really?"

"My treat." River explained, "You've just gone to get drinks."

It was not something he remembered doing; it was his future. No wonder River was being vague. Even though he knew he wouldn't get an answer, just to break the rules, the Doctor asked, "What's the occasion?"

"Spoilers!" River singed her usual tune, and the Doctor huffed in amusement.

Then the Doctor frowned. He looked over his shoulder where Sherlock, John, Sam and Dean had disappeared into the flat, to make sure no one was still lingering. The doors were shut, but he lowered his voice just in case. "River, I need your help."

* * *

"Is it a case?"

John Watson pressed the phone firmly to his ear, but hesitated in his response because, honestly, he wasn't sure what to call _this _any more. He was watching Sherlock as the man repeatedly walked around the blue box that was currently stood in the entrance to the kitchen - how he would explain to Mrs Hudson how it got there he didn't know, since it was too large to fit through the doors or windows. Meanwhile, Sam and Dean were stood on the other side of the flat by the windows. Dean looked a little pale – _Kinetosis_ his medical mind told him – and Sam was watching Sherlock, but his eyes would wander curiously around flat from time to time, as though he'd stepped in a childhood dream. John was just waiting for some kind of deduction from Sherlock, while trying to focus on the phone call.

"John?" his wife's voice came through the phone, gentle, questioning.

Phone call. Right. That's what he was doing.

"Er, yeah, yeah. Kind of." John said quickly. He turned away from the box; it was too inconceivable to even look at without making his mind spin. Feeling better now he'd turned away, he tried again to focus on the conversation with his wife and he said, "I'm sure I'll be back soon."

"No, you won't." Mary said, knowingly. John could sense her smirk.

John nodded, "Okay, no I won't. But I _will_ be back." He paused then added, "Call if you, you know, feel anything. Anything at all. It can be _absolutely _anything. Even if it's nothing, call me and I'll be..."

"John." Mary sing-songed in her sweetest voice, "You're being paranoid. I can get myself to hospital – Sherlock even showed me the quickest routes."

John frowned, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably, "Not quite sure how to feel about that…"

"Stop worrying." Mary repeated, more firmly this time, "I'll see you later."

John smiled, "Bye." He said quickly and hung up.

At that moment, the Doctor stepped out of the TARDIS, closing the doors behind him. He took a moment to observe Sherlock's flat which they had all tumbled into – John, for the life of him, wasn't sure why he said Baker Street; force of habit, perhaps? The Doctor's eyes were wide and childish as he took in the fire-place, the brown dusty furniture, the papers Sherlock had hung on the wall. He smiled brightly at the four men in the room. "See." The Doctor said, lounging against his blue box, "I told you we could travel anywhere."

Dean looked him up and down, still a little breathless from the flight, "Well, if you're so smart…" – at this Sherlock's head jerked up and his eyes narrowed at the Doctor, pouting a little – "…then tell us: What the hell were those statue things?"

"The Weeping Angels." The Doctor replied, "They used to be called the Lonely Assassins."

"Oh,_ delightful_." John sighed, slumping down into his chair and rubbing his eyes. Too much was happening all at once. That morning he'd been a married doctor to an amazing wife and worked all day at the Health Centre and solved crimes with his sociopath best friend as a hobby to help him pay the rent. And now, he'd seen moving statues, boxes that could travel anywhere and, oh, did he mention that it was _bigger on the inside? _He'd pinched himself so many times his arms were red!

The Doctor looked at Sam and Dean, "And what about you?" he asked curiously, "You're not from around here. How did you get involved with this?"

The two brothers exchanged looks. Dean's eyes were narrowed: _Lie!_ Yet, Sam looked hesitant: _No!_ He gave Dean a look which said: _We need all the help we can get. Stop being a jerk – _to which Dean rolled his eyes. The Doctor watched them admirably. Humans never failed to fascinate him. After a moment, Sam explained, "We came here looking for a friend. A hunter."

"Hunter?"

"Yeah." Sam said, "It's like our job…"

"Apart from you don't get paid." Sherlock threw in, and he gave a smug smile at Dean and Sam's cautious looks, telling him he was correct. "Knew it."

Dean scowled at him again – he was going to end up getting wrinkles if he hung around Sherlock any more, Sam thought – and he retorted, "Yeah. Good for you, Beanstalk."

The Doctor's forehead crinkled as he raised his eyebrows at the feud between the two men. John gave him a look that said _'Get used to it'_ and Sam's slightly peeved look confirmed to him that this had been going on for a while and everyone was already fed up. He decided to draw attention away from it and back to the original subject, so he asked the brothers, "What do you hunt?"

There was a pause, in which the brothers shared another conversation through looks alone as though they shared a telepathic link – which they didn't or the Doctor would defiantly know about it. Eventually, Dean said, "Monsters."

That's when John laughed like a maniac.

"Okay, okay…" he paused, took a breath, but couldn't hide his smirk, "Statues that move. A box bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. A quote-alien-unquote. And now monster hunters?" he laughed again, lowering his head and shaking it.

Dean scowled at being ridiculed. It took him a moment to realise that John wasn't laughing because he thought it was funny; he was laughing because it was completely ridiculous, and he just couldn't accept it as truth. Everything that had happened today was impossible by his standards, and just plain weird by Dean's standards. "Well, believe it." Dean said, "We even have an angel friend of our own."

John rested his head against his fingers and peered at him, dubious, "A statue?"

"Nope." Dean gave him a snide look. "An Angel of the _Lord_, and we can prove it."

The Doctor inhaled sharply. Suddenly, he regretted his decision earlier and now he wanted to leave as fast as he could. He wondered if he sneaked back in his TARDIS, and put the engines on silent, would anyone notice that he'd gone. It wasn't the first time he'd met the Heavenly Host, and he and they weren't on the best of terms. A confrontation with another angel was something he wasn't ready for. He'd rather have the Weeping Angels!

Sherlock scoffed. He didn't care much for angels, religion, or anything of that genre. He wasn't open to those idiotic things. They were just fantasies. However, he didn't voice his opinion for once, because after seeing a box bigger on the inside than it was on the outside and being chased through a house by statues, he wasn't sure he could trust himself to speak.

Dean then closed his eyes and prayed, "Dear Castiel, who better have a good excuse for leaving this morning, get over here now. We have an angel problem." He opened his eyes again and found John staring at him with two raised eyebrows, and Sherlock just looked amused. On the other hand, the Doctor looked even more uncomfortable than before.

They heard rustling feathers. Castiel appeared in front of the fireplace.

Sam and Dean could barely contain their laughter at John and Sherlock's reactions. John's mouth had dropped wide open and he was gawking at Castiel. After a pause, when no sound came out of his mouth, he closed it again and just continued to stare. Sherlock stood up straight, his greenish-brown eyes flashing, and glared at Castiel as if his very presence in the room was an insult. On the other hand, the Doctor felt his stomach churn. He pressed his back against his TARDIS and looked over at the wall in an attempt to calm his nerves. Confused, Castiel looked at John and the Sherlock, until his eyes rested on the Doctor. For the briefest of moments, his eyes filled with sheer panic, but it was displaced when Dean addressed him.

"Hey, Cas." Dean said, "It's good to see you."

Castiel looked a little confused. He glanced at the Doctor again, and then the others in the room, his eyes moving rapidly, before he looked at Dean. "Dean. Who are these people?"

"Um…Sherlock, John and the Doctor." Dean waved a hand at each them in turn.

Castiel nodded to them in his way of greeting, making a great effort not to look at the Doctor. No one did anything in response. The Doctor seemed to find the swirling dust in sunbeams very fascinating at that moment. Sherlock Holmes looked enraged at Castiel: _That's wrong. He shouldn't be here. _All the while, John continued to open and close his mouth like a fish until he finally stuttered out, "H-how did he do that?" with a small smile; part of him was hoping this was all a joke.

Sam gave him a small shrug because he didn't quite understand it himself and probably never would. He said, "He's an angel."

John stared at him, a little peeved, "No. Seriously."

"Seriously."

John turned to Castiel, who was looking a little lost in this situation. "You're an angel?" John asked sceptically. "So, what, you have wings and you can heal people?"

Dean gestured to his fractured jaw and bruise and grinned at Castiel, "If you don't mind, Cas."

Castiel pressed two fingers to Dean's forehead and the bruise vanished from sight. His jaw was aligned perfectly again, and his skin had referred back to an even tone of light brown and not the blotchy pink and purple it had been before. John gaped, as Dean moved his jaw around and grinned at Castiel in thanks. The sharp stings of pain had gone and now he could talk without cringing.

"I need to think." Sherlock stood abruptly and stalked out through the kitchen and slamming the door on his way. Loudly.

After that the room fell into a pregnant silence.

A fly was buzzing around the window. Every now and again it would smack its head against the glass, and even that tiny sound seemed so loud that it filled the room. No one made an effort to do anything to break the silence; everyone was struggling to find _the words_ to break it. Castiel was looking at the carpet. The Doctor was looking at the wall. John was staring at his feet; every now and again he'd count his toes because he'd heard that you have the wrong number of toes and fingers in a dream. Dean shifted uncomfortably, casting glances at his brother. This would usually be the time when they'd come up with a plan to ditch this place and kill the monster but, as Sam's helpless shrug indicated, they had nothing.

The clock ticked loudly and ten minutes later, at nine o'clock, it began to chime. John jumped at the sound, and gave a heavy sigh. After a pause, he got up and went into the kitchen. "Would, er, anyone like anything? Tea? Coffee? …Water?"

Sam smiled in sympathy. He remembered when Dean told him about their dad's _real_ job. He'd watched TV, read twelve books, and even did some chores – everything he would usually do, or at least plan to. Then, at the end of the day when Dean tucked him into bed, it all sank in and he realised that he could read a thousand books, he could watch TV for days on end, and do as many chores as he could without wearing himself out – and it still wouldn't make a difference. His world had completely changed, but it didn't stop him from grasping at those normal straws long into his future; trying to focus on his education, get a girlfriend, go to college; it was never going to work out. The only difference between then and now is that the change wasn't so dramatic for him, but for John it was. Sam decided to help him along. "Sure." He said, walking into the kitchen, "I'll have black coffee, thanks."

The Doctor said, looking to John, "I'll have some coffee. Um…milk, no sugar."

"Do you have any beer?" Dean called, feeling that this was the perfect situation to have some alcohol.

"Only the stuff Sherlock has experimented on which, by the way, I'm not even sure is beer any more." John replied as he worked in the kitchen, feeling a little more comfortable that something ordinary was happening. He placed two cups of black coffee on a tray and gave it to Sam, "The one on the right is Sherlock's."

Meanwhile Dean, who had concluded that he simply couldn't stay in the room for much longer without the help of something to dull his senses, got up headed towards the door, saying, "I'm going to check on our stuff."

At this, Castiel's head perked up. He spared a glance at the Doctor, and then stood. "I'll go with you." He said to Dean and the two of them continued out without another word.

The Doctor watched them leave.

Dean stomped up the stairs fuming. He should have known that typical Winchester luck – or lack of it – would come and bite him sooner rather than later. You see, it would be an unfortunate coincidence to get an apartment on the same street as the most annoying dickbag on the face of the planet. It would be even more unfortunate to get an apartment _next door_ to the most annoying dickbag on the face of the planet. But no – he had to get an apartment _in the same bloody building _as the most annoying dickbag on the face of the planet! That wasn't unfortunate. That was pitiful.

The universe had a cruel sense of humour.

"The landlady had pie." Dean grumbled, "I should have known there was a catch." He turned to go into his and his brother's new flat when he noticed that Castiel wasn't following. At first he was worried that Castiel had disappeared again and was just using the same excuse as him to get out an awkward situation without causing further heart attacks. But this was not the case: Castiel was stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking down at his feet with furrowed eyebrows. He looked worried, and this made Dean hesitate. Something that could worry an Angel of the Lord was never good news. "You okay, Cas?"

Castiel seemed to snap out of his trance at Dean's voice. "I'm fine." He replied quickly, and Dean raised his head to regard the angel suspiciously.

The look Castiel had: the one where he was too happy, to the point where it was simply unreal and sad than anything else. Castiel wasn't good at faking emotions since he had no understanding of real ones. Dean thought back to that morning when he and Sam first took the case. He remembered that Castiel was also acting strangely then, but when he thought about it, he realised that Castiel had acted strange only _after_ they mentioned going to England. It was something about being here, of all places, which made Castiel extremely uncomfortable.

"Are you sure?"

Castiel nodded, smiling, "Yes."

"Really." Dean said sceptically, folding his arms across his chest, "Because you seemed a little freaked out about coming to England this morning. Why was that? You hate migrating?"

"Dean!" Castiel snapped, "I said I was fine!"

Dean scowled, voice raising, "Well, clearly, you're _not!"_

"Is everything all right?"

Castiel suddenly went rigid. The Doctor had appeared at the bottom of the steps, wondering what all the yelling was about, and was now looking between them curiously.

"Yeah, yeah…" Dean muttered, slightly distracted. He was looking between the Doctor and Castiel, beginning to draw attention to something he had not noticed before. The Doctor only looked at Dean for a short moment before he looked at the back of Castiel's head, remorse shinning in his eyes like un-fallen tears. Castiel refused to look in the Doctor's general direction, but when the Doctor left, he turned and his gaze lingered on where the alien had been stood. Dean watched the exchange suspiciously.

"Wait a minute." He said, staring at Castiel with widening eyes as realization hit him, "Have you met him before?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Dean." Castiel said, hoping to end the conversation at that. He hurriedly moved past Dean and continued up the stairs. Dean hastily followed him. He refused to let it go that easily.

"Is that why you didn't want to come here?" Dean questioned, "Does this Doctor-guy hang around here a lot?"

Castiel hesitated, but eventually said, in a quiet voice, "He is particular fond of the UK."

_So that was it, _Dean thought; _all this time, Castiel had been avoiding the Doctor, but why?_ Suddenly, Dean bit his lip as he felt a cold chill run down his spine; of course there was something wrong with that monster! What did he expect? Dean looked over at Castiel, "I guess we can't trust him."

Castiel's head snapped up and he stared at Dean with horror, "No! I trust the Doctor." He protested, and Dean was taken back by the forcefulness of the declaration, as well as surprised by what he was saying. "I trust him with this planet and all others. And so should you."

But that didn't make any sense. The two of them looked like they wanted to move to another planet each just to stay away from each other. "Then, why are you two so tense around each other?" Dean questioned, "You look like the fiancé who just bumped into the ex-husband - wait. You're not the fiancé and the ex-husband are you?"

"No, Dean." Castiel sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. He looked so defeated, Dean thought, and he was reminded immediately of an event that took place only a few weeks ago. The angel had joined them for one of their strangest cases yet, but Castiel had been acting a little strange. In fact, he had been acting just as he was at this moment. When Dean had asked him about it last time he'd gotten the answer he didn't expect nor wanted to hear from any of his closest friends and family: _"I'm afraid I'll kill myself." _What that what Castiel was feeling now? It made Dean sick to the stomach to think that the Doctor had re-awakened such intense feelings of guilt, pain, and loss, especially since Castiel was trying his hardest to work away the feelings he already had, and it was even more difficult for the angel, since he barely understood them to begin with.

"I trust the Doctor." Castiel repeated, giving a small shake of his head, "That doesn't mean he trusts me."

* * *

**A.N: **Stay tuned for Part 2 to this chapter! Thanks for reading everyone.

**Chapter Notes: **Google Maps strikes again! I used it to see the TARDIS interior from all angles, and help me describe it a little better. I wanted to include as much detail as possible, and Google Maps helped because it allowed me to zoom in on different parts. (I did change a bit: in this version of the TARDIS, the Doctor's phone is on the outside, but let's just pretend he put it back on the inside for this. Hehe.) Coffee preferences: I know John never took sugar in his tea, but he seemed to like it milky while Sherlock and the Winchester brothers seemed to like their black coffee, though Sherlock has two sugars with his, and since it was never confirmed how the Eleventh Doctor likes his coffee, his coffee is actually how the Ninth Doctor had his.

_"I'm afraid I'll kill myself." _is a reference to the Season 8 episode 'Hunteri Heroici' and I'm planning to build Castiel's story arc around the issues presented there since this story takes place just after that episode.


	5. A Synergy Of Sorts PART 2

**Disclaimer: **My story, not my characters.

* * *

**Five**

A Synergy Of Sorts – PART 2

"I need to think."

Sherlock's mind was reeling. The gears in his head stuttering and coughing like a vintage car: How can a man appear from nowhere? How can he heal with a single touch? _Impossible, _but Sherlock paused, because he knew that nothing was impossible_._ Yet things like this didn't just happen without a logical explanation. Perhaps this was a very well cohered trick, perhaps to distract him from Moriarty; which only seemed logical if the man in question was behind this. It was an eccentric move on his part, but it was thrilling and had captured Sherlock's attention almost as quickly as the first time Moriarty invited him out to play. This was something Moriarty would do. _But __I'm getting ahead of myself._ Maybe this had nothing to do with Moriarty at all. Maybe, despite all his beliefs, this was just as it was – real.

Still, he couldn't figure this out if he couldn't think. It was difficult with the others rambling on about whatever they were talking about – boring things, probably, like the British President. Sherlock went to his bedroom and slammed the door shut behind him. He needed solitude if he was to use his Mind Palace to find answers to all the strange happenings of that day. Slumping down on his bed, he stilled himself, waiting until the mattress stop moving under his weight. When all movement stopped, and he was as rigid as ice, he closed his eyes, allowing everything around him to become embedded in darkness.

After a moment, a bead of light appeared in the darkness. It began to grow, slowly morphing from a small bead into a large square of light, big enough for a man to fit through. Sherlock approached it confidently, and reached out his hands – in his room, he had his eyes screwed shut and was reaching out towards nothing – and he pushed against the light. The light folded inwards, working as two double doors and Sherlock stepped inside his Mind Palace.

His Mind Palace was made up of each place he'd been to in his life: There was a staircase from an old house where he and John had shared their first case, which appeared when he had use of it. There was his brother's office, where a figment of his brother resided to belittle him when he couldn't find answers. There was an old dungeon he visited on a school trip which held his darkest secrets. All of the places were combined into one inside his head, like patchwork, and each one held all the information he'd stored over the years, visualised in some shape or form.

At the moment, Sherlock was inside a large cathedral. He used to come here with his parents and brother Mycroft on Sundays for the church service. As he walked down the aisle of the cathedral, he noticed an elderly man at the altar. He was preparing the wine for the next service; humming hymns absently as he added water to the wine and separated it into the large goblets. Sherlock approached him slowly. When he reached him, the priest was separating small slices of wafer, as a supplement for bread. He didn't look up, but when he spoke, he was addressing Sherlock, "I remember the last time you came here. You were just a little boy." The priest, of course, was referring to the real cathedral, not his Mind Palace since Sherlock had come here many times on quiet nights to sit inside the orange light and glare accusingly at the tapestry and just _wonder_. The elderly man looked up at him and gave him a sad smile, "The day you lost faith."

Sherlock heard a sob, and turned his head to the left to see a little boy crouched at the altar. The boy had small clammy hands and chubby fingers clasped together. His face was soaked with tears. His curly locks were sweaty and ragged from exhaustion and constant crying. "Please." He whispered, over and over, "Bring him back. Please, please. Bring him back."

The boy was Sherlock.

He remembered that day as if it happened yesterday. It was the day something snapped inside him; a thin wavering elastic band of childlike trust. A child's trust is given so easily, and yet it is the most fragile thing ever. As a child, Sherlock couldn't trust many people. His brother Mycroft was, well…he was Mycroft, his worst enemy. His parents weren't the best of people to talk too. Other children were just stupid, annoying, whining things. There was no one Sherlock could turn to, who could lend an ear, except Redbeard.

Redbeard was an Irish Setter, a dog his family rescued after it was involved with an accident. Mycroft felt nothing for the pup, and his parents felt charitable but that was all. On the other hand, Sherlock had grown extremely attached to Redbeard. Someone who listened. Someone who knew when he was upset. Someone who knew exactly how to cheer him up. The day Sherlock lost faith was the day Redbeard had been put down. Sherlock had lost his only friend and companion that day, and he was certain he couldn't survive without Redbeard. He'd prayed. He'd prayed harder than he had ever before, but nothing happened, and he was left alone.

He came to the conclusion that God, wishes, faith, dreams coming true - everything a child should believe in - were nothing but ludicrous fantasies.

But now things were different. It was like everything he'd ever believed had been forced into a tiny vase, and now someone had that vase in their fist and was squeezing. Cracks were appearing in its delicate shell. As these thoughts went through his head, the walls of the cathedral began to splinter and crumble. The priest vanished in a puff of urgency, as a large crack appeared in the floor. It spiked towards Sherlock, who leapt back. He glanced round. The whole room was covered in cracks, about to break. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to picture an escape, but he was panicking too much. Sherlock heard shattering glass and grunted, raising his arms to protect himself. The cathedral melted away. His eyes were open, blinking away the images of his Mind Palace still dancing around his eyes.

He noticed someone was knocking at the door. Who would disturb him? Not John; he had enough intelligence for that. Sherlock didn't bother opening the door, hoping that whoever it was would go away so he could re-piece his Mind Palace together and finally focus on the problem at hand. But whoever it was didn't leave. Instead, the door opened and in stepped…not John. It was one of those annoying American brothers, holding a tray of what smelt like coffee. Sherlock frowned; _what was his name?_

"...Simon?"

The other man smiled, "Sam." He corrected. He seemed to take that as an invitation, since he walked right in, closing the door quietly behind him. Sherlock watched him like a hawk as he placed the tray on the beside table and took one of the cups. There was a period of silence. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. _He's given me the coffee, why isn't he leaving yet? _Sam took a deep gulp of his coffee, letting it warm him up inside. He knew the situation was becoming awkward and he'd have to break the silence soon. After a pause, he said, "Look, I know what you're going through."

"I doubt it." Sherlock muttered. He waved an arm as if to dismiss him. "I can tell. You experience these anomalies every day, do you not?"

Sam couldn't argue with that. It was true that he'd seen what most would believe as impossible regularly, however today's events were new and uncomfortable for him also. He gave a small shrug and said, "It's been a rough day for me to."

"Yes, yes..." Sherlock drawled, "I could have told you that. Now _get out_."

Sam scowled. He didn't like this man's attitude at all, but in a way he reminded him of Dean when he was annoyed or upset. Suddenly, it was easy to see why the two of them had clashed so harshly. Sam found himself wanting to help, like he would want to help Dean. But what could he say that the detective didn't already know? He chewed his lip in thought. He didn't want Sherlock to retreat into his shell. If he could help Sherlock, perhaps he could help Dean also – he'd be able to find out what was bothering him recently, and he might even be able to fix it. That's what Sam wanted the most. Not to mention, he'd been a big fan of detective stories as a kid and he was determined to reach the man who was, in more ways than one, his childhood hero.

"You like logic, right?" Sam said at last, "Well, monsters have logic behind them too. Dean and I have to figure out the monster and how to defeat it."

Sherlock seemed to think about this for a moment. It had merit, to say the least, but Sherlock couldn't live by 'if's and 'maybe's. He needed solid logic, clever mysteries and, most of the time, answers. He asked, "How do you differentiate truth from fiction?"

"Most of the time? We just go with it."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

_Shit. _Sam should have known the second that tumbled out of his mouth that it was the wrong thing to say. He stuttered trying to recover, "Um…we use our…logic to figure out what to do. Like…" _what was the word he used? _ "Deduction!" he cried in triumph, and Sherlock raised his eyebrow at his outburst. Sam cleared his throat, "It's all deduction, really. Narrowing things down to the right monster and the right method of killing it." – Which was true, in a way. There were many times were Sam and Dean had to solve a mystery before they could defeat the monster.

Sherlock peered at him for a long moment. It was a little unnerving, Sam thought, like looking into the eyes of a doll. For a moment, Sam thought he saw Sherlock's pupils shrink, but it was probably just a trick of the light. At last, Sherlock looked away and grabbed his laptop – actually it was John's, but Sam assumed it was his – and began typing rapidly. Sam raised his eyebrows, but figured he wouldn't get anywhere else with Sherlock, so he left the detective to his thoughts.

* * *

The clock chimed at midnight; a quiet hollow sound echoing through an equally quiet house. Both fascinated and perplexed, Castiel raised his head to the sound and blinked at the clock on the mantel piece. He never really understood why humans had clocks – as an angel, time meant nothing to him: He was millions of years old, as old as the earth, and after all that time watching the earth grow, time itself lost all meaning. So, why did humans obsess over counting every second of everyday? Didn't it just make their short lives feel even shorter? Or did it somehow help them order their lives? Humans never ceased to be interesting. It would never grow old – trying to categorise them, figure them out. To every category the humans had, there was always one, or one thousand, that didn't fit in. And his Father knew all of them to their very core? It seemed impossible.

When he and Dean had made their way back down stairs into Sherlock's flat – or apartment as Dean called it, which confused Castiel into what he should call it: a dwelling? – it was late into the night. He was still waiting for Dean or Sam, probably Sam since he was better at it, to explain to him what was going on. Dean had said 'angel problem' but if their where any angels nearby he'd sense them. He didn't understand why Sam and Dean were with the other two strangers, Sherlock and John, either. And then there was the Doctor…How could it be that they'd run into the very man Castiel had tried to avoid?

When he saw the Doctor, Castiel had been gripped with fear. He'd wanted to run. He wasn't ready to face the mistakes he'd made so long ago, to face _him. _But at the same time, he was also longing to see him, speak to him, reminisce about old times, and make up for the time they'd lost. He wanted the Doctor's forgiveness. But he knew he couldn't have it because when he looked at the Doctor, the Doctor hadn't even looked at him. He was still angry after all these years. Castiel felt a lump settle in the bottom of his stomach. He knew this feeling was guilt. It had become a very familiar sensation recently.

Castiel hadn't failed to notice that no one seemed particularly pleased to be here, so much so that his presence was soon ignored. John had told them he was going to bed and stumbled away without another word. Not long afterwards, Sam and Dean went upstairs to do the same. Dean complained a lot about it, but despite this he rebuffed the Doctor's offer to stay in the TARDIS, probably because of his fear of flying, but Castiel couldn't help but wonder if what he said to Dean had also influenced his decision. It wasn't his intention to make him uneasy, especially now he knew that things where already unstable between them.

After the others had left, the Doctor didn't say much to Castiel, which gave the angel a sensation that confused him. He didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

"Will you be all right?" the Doctor asked, barely meeting his eyes. He was tense around the shoulders, and Castiel knew this was because he was holding back a lot of rage. He looked away in shame.

"Yes." He replied quietly, and then, because it seemed appropriate, he added, "I don't sleep."

"I remember."

Then he went into his TARDIS, and the TARDIS roared into life before it vanished from the room with the Doctor inside. Castiel knew the Doctor hated to stay in one place too long and would probably go on several adventures before the night was over. Again, _time:_ It had no meaning to beings like him and the Doctor. The Doctor could go away and age a few thousand more years before he came back. Castiel could do the same. He could go back in time to see the _Neanderthals _and listen to their beautiful poetry. He could leave and do anything he wanted.

But he didn't. He needed to think, and he had a whole night to do it.

Ever since he fell from Heaven, he'd had to make so many decisions. He'd fallen because it was the right thing to do, and ever since he'd tried to do the right thing. Of course, it was a lot more difficult than he had anticipated. Castiel closed his eyes as guilt gnawed at him. He'd made the most terrible mistakes; one's he could never forgive himself for, despite that his intentions were pure. Now, he was trying to atone for what he's done: helping people, helping Dean and Sam. He had to repair what he's broken. And now, his friendship with the Doctor had been added to that long list.

He had to fix it. _Had to._ He couldn't get it wrong this time. Castiel knew that this could be the key into fixing everything. If he could gain the forgiveness of the Oncoming Storm, quell the Fury of the Time Lord, then surely he could gain the forgiveness of his angelic family and then the Winchesters. This was the right thing to do. The question was: how?

Part of him wished he could share his problems with someone; help fight this isolation he was suffering with. But who was there to listen? It almost scared him. Last time he was alone, he'd taken the wrong path, betrayed his friends, and killed many of his brothers - including the ones he called his friends. But this wouldn't happen again - Castiel swore it to himself. He'd fix everything, whether he had to do it alone or not.

When the clock finally stopped chiming, Castiel turned back to the fire. He watched the flames lick and dance around one another as they completed for which could rise the highest. The angel found himself transfixed. The vibrant orange colours reminded him of a red planet with two Suns and giant mountains capped with golden snow. He remembered the beauty of the place; the deep red pastures sloping up the hillsides to meet silver leaves and disappear deep into the forest. He remembered the two boys who ran across them, cawing up at the sky as if they were birds, and leaping, shoving, at one another until they collapsed in fits of laughter. Castiel remembered how his curiosity guided him to the edge of the trees, where he had hidden, so he could watch the two strange children. Of course, he had no vessel, so he was just a bright light trying to hide behind silver leaves. He was spotted in no time. That's how they met: the boy who would become the Doctor, his best friend who would become his enemy, and the celestial being of light known as Castiel.

* * *

_"Don't lose it, Dean. Don't lose the ring."_

Dean woke with a start. The last remnants of a woman's voice echoed in his head from the realm of dreams like a warning siren. Straight away, he leapt off his bed to the hook where he hung his jacket and shoved his hand into the pocket. Part of him hoped it wasn't there. Part of him hoped that he'd just hallucinated its presence yesterday. That would make things simpler. However, he knew he didn't hallucinate the secretive research he did that day, searching through all the lore for who, or what, was following him. He was certain it was a spirit. He knew it had to be either a Reaper or a spirit to have Death's ring because only they could get that close to the Horseman. While researching, he found some myths saying that spirits could visit a person in their dreams, which narrowed it down. The thing is – something that made Dean's skin crawl – there was no way he could be given something in a dream and wake up with it in his hand, so that meant that the ghost had been with them in the motel. Then it had followed them to the UK.

When he checked his pocket, Death's ring was still there. At least he hadn't lost it – if Death came after his ring and found out that he'd lost it... Dean didn't want to think about what he'd do.

Dean scowled as he pulled on his jacket. He needed answers. There had to be a library around, right? Straight after the case, he and Sam would…Wait. What would he tell, Sam? Dean sighed and dragged his palm across his face. This whole situation was stressing him out. Some creepy-ass lady is haunting him, he has Death's ring in his pocket, there's an alien downstairs, and somehow he got stuck working a dickhead and a guy who can throw a really, _really _good punch! Dean wished he was in a bar so he could numb all this away with a healthy stream of booze.

He heard Sam come out of the bathroom. His hair was damp from the shower but he was dressed and looked refreshed. _Lucky guy…_ "Hey." Sam said, "You okay?"

"Fine." Dean said quickly. He grabbed his duffel bag and began forcefully shoving his clothes and weapons into it.

Sam sighed, "Dean, what are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" he retorted. He knew he sounded like a jerk but he really needed Sam to get off his case. He didn't want Sam involved. This ring-business could be dangerous. "_I'm _packing. _We're _leaving. And then, _we're _going to kill those statues."

"Dean we don't even know _how!"_ And there it is, Sam with his annoyingly rational thinking. Dean didn't know how worried Sam was, how afraid he was. Dean only knew that he was trying to protect Sam.

Still, Sam was right. They needed more information before they could go back. Fortunately, there was an encyclopaedia full of facts sitting right downstairs. Unfortunately, Dean wasn't too keen to talk to him. But it didn't matter. Killing the monster came first - or second, after saving people - and Dean said, "Then let's ask Mr Peabody."

The Doctor was downstairs, in Sherlock's apartment. Any evidence that he'd actually moved since Dean and Sam last saw him was subtle: his clothes and hairstyle had changed slightly and the TARDIS was a few inches to the right of what it had been the other day. He was wearing a different bow-tie, a dark blue one instead of a red, and his grey waistcoat had changed to a lighter blue. However, neither brother picked up on this and it was left remaining that only Castiel knew that the Doctor was now a few months older than he was yesterday. Castiel himself was looking out through the window, but he turned round when Dean and Sam came in. The landlady, Mrs Hudson was also in the apartment. She was a nice old woman who wore a long-sleeved lilac dress and a white crochet cardigan. She was holding a tray filled with shaky cups and saucers. She giggled loudly at something the Doctor said and the contents of the tray clicking together. The Doctor beamed at her, draining the last of his coffee, and giving her back the cup. Mrs Hudson turned and smiled at Sam and Dean.

"Good morning, dearies. How was the flat?"

"It was good, Mrs Hudson." Sam replied with a polite smile. It was better than the dirty, rotting motels they'd stayed in previously. "Thank you."

She turned and peered into the kitchen, where Sherlock was sat at the table, leaning over some papers. "Sherlock, dear," she said, gently, "You really should have something to eat. I'll ring your mother."

Sherlock groaned loudly. "Don't you have something else to do? I'm sure there are biscuits or something…"

"Oh! I do, actually." She looked at Winchesters, "Biscuits, boys?"

Dean brightened up instantly at the thought of food, but born-guilty Sam quickly said, "No, that's all right…"

"Just this once. I'm not your house keeper."

"Um…"

"Just this once."

As Mrs Hudson tittered downstairs, the tray she was holding rattling as she went, John came out of his bedroom. Fatigued, he dragged his feet behind him, yawning and stretching. His blondish-brown hair stuck up in clumps and there were big bags under his eyes. It was obvious that he hadn't slept well. He sighed, pressing his palm against the side of the TARDIS as he leaned on it. When he saw what he was leaning on, he jumped and swore sourly. "Oh God…"

Dean raised his eyebrows, "You okay, padre?"

For a quick fleeting moment, John glared at him like he was a hair in an omelette. Then his face became neutral; military discipline kicking in. He said, "I woke up this morning and thought yesterday was just some weird dream." He shrugged, "There goes my good morning." He headed into the kitchen, reaching to get something out of one of the top cupboards when he glanced at what Sherlock was looking at. His arm dropped like a stone and smacked against his side, and he sighed, "Are those the missing person reports?"

Intrigued, Dean, Sam and the Doctor went into the kitchen and, sure enough, there were the same reports they'd laid eyes on just yesterday. Castiel moved a little closer, but kept his distance from the others - more specifically, the Doctor. Sherlock didn't say anything but gave a grin that would put the Cheshire Cat to shame. John pinched the bridge of his nose, "Sherlock please don't tell me you stole from Scotland Yard again…I could have easily have gotten a copy."

"Takes too long."

"Don't you think you've given them enough trouble?" John accused. Dean was almost expecting him to send Sherlock to his room, like what Lisa did with Ben - apparently it was a common punishment, but Dean wouldn't know since he was too afraid of his father's disapproval to misbehave at home. "You know, after harpooning the pig yesterday?"

"He actually did that?" Dean looked at him with disbelief and then smirked, "Awesome! You _do_ have some redeeming qualities."

"Unfortunately, I am yet to find yours."

The Doctor braced his hands against the table as he read the reports with dark sad eyes. "So these are all the people the Weeping Angels took…" he said mournfully, "I should have come here sooner."

Sherlock had his chin resting on his fingertips and maintained this position as he looked up at the Doctor. "You knew about this." he stated as fact, "You were the one who left that message on the wall. 1969? You are older than you look."

_'Love from the Doctor' - why hadn't they noticed that before? _Dean wondered. Well, in fairness, the monster-statues and the small-but-giant blue box were a little distracting...

The Doctor nodded, "It's a long story, but basically I came here a few years ago, but the Weeping Angels sent me back in time. So I left the message to a friend so she'd figure out what to do. She managed to stop the Weeping Angels, but it wasn't exactly a long-term solution…"

"So that was why the disappearances stopped." Sam said, pointing at the records, "According to the reports, there's an eight month gap between these two victims: Katherine Nightingale in June 2007, and March Denton in February 2008, whereas everyone else were weeks apart at the most. They both disappeared at the house where the Weeping Angels are."

Dean rolled his eyes, "Okay, nerds." he exclaimed, "If you guys are so smart and the Weeping Angels just _love_ the house they're at – then why do half of these people go missing somewhere else? Like this guy, Albert Cunning, last seen at the Celtic Manor Resort?" he smiled, feeling proud of himself for coming up with that, and his his smile grew when no one else responded. But, of course, Sherlock Holmes had to go and rain on his parade. Again.

"That's obvious!" Sherlock cried like Dean just doubted that oxygen is needed to live, "The Weeping Angels are _clearly_ intelligent, since at the house they knew to block our escape, so they move around to avoid detection but return to the house before anyone knows they're gone. They move quickly?"

"Faster then you'll ever believe." the Doctor mumbled.

Dean laughed sarcastically and cried, "Now moving statues are _obvious!_ Weren't you having a fit before?"

Sherlock threw eye-daggers at Dean. "I wasn't having a fit!"

"It looked like you were having a fit."

"Guys!" John said in a tired voice, "Knock it off."

"The thing is, the Weeping Angels aren't statues." The Doctor continued, when the noise died down, "They're creatures from another world. They only look like stone when you see them, but the second you turn your back they transform and come after you. If they touch you, you're sent back in time and they feed off the potential time energy of the days you might have lived in the future."

"My head hurts." Dean mumbled. Then he got an idea, "So, hey, couldn't we just blow them up?"

John gave him a sceptical look, "You have explosives on you?"

"Hypothetically."

Everyone looked over at the Doctor except Sherlock, who appeared to have zoned out from the conversation and was staring intently at the records. The Doctor shook his head, "Hypothetically...no. We couldn't. Radiation is dinner to an angel. They feed off all kinds of energy, but time energy is like their version of chocolate."

Dean stared with disbelief. "Then how do we kill them?" _Typical. Only a magic sword or stupid Latin mumbo-jumbo..._

"We don't."

_Okay I misheard that. _Dean looked hard at the Doctor, "What?"

"Oh, I'll do a thing!" The Doctor said cheerily, and Dean blinked. The Doctor paused and frowned, "When I come up with one. Anyway, we'll need to rescue those people. And Jack, of course."

"But how are we supposed to find them?" Sam asked, "Don't get me wrong, I'm all up for rescuing them, but if they've been sent through time how can we find them?"

The Doctor smiled. "When the Angels touch someone, they pull them out of time itself." he explained, "This creates Time Dispersal Energy, which has a very distinct pattern – remember when you were inside the house? What did you feel?"

"A sort of…tingling feeling." Sam said, feeling ridiculous. He could cope with a pin-prickle, but what he felt at Wester Drumlins was anything but that. "Like the chills."

"That wasn't just your nerves…" The Doctor said, "Time Dispersal Energy leaves a scatter trail inside the Time Vortex. I can use the TARDIS to create an energy loop around the trail and ride us along it."

Dean blinked again. He suddenly wished he'd paid more attention in school instead of having flings with girls. "I have no idea what any of that meant, but you're basically saying they left a trail you can follow?"

The Doctor rolled his eyes, but grinned all the same. "Way to take all the fun and the mystery out of it, but yes, I am."

John was staring at him with high eyebrows, but eventually he shook himself, "Time vortex?"

"Think of a train line."

John said, hesitantly, "...Okay."

"But it's nothing like that." The Doctor said. John scowled, his mouth opening in a '_wha...?'_ position. The Doctor pranced around the kitchen table, flapping his hands about, as he spoke. "So, a train line with lots of stops, each one being a different place in time and space. Get it?"

John narrowed his eyes in his confusion, "So, just to clarify, it _is_ like a train line?"

The Doctor stared at him like he just spoke another language. "What? No, no! But if it helps – yeah." If the Doctor noticed the deadly looks he was getting from the others, he didn't react at all to say as such. He just continued with his speech of madness, "Anyway, my TARDIS will be able to find the trails of those who disappeared from the house - that's the reason I went there in the first place, actually. We can rescue Jack. I'm not too sure about the others since the energy fades over time. Still, we'll just have to find out. Come along, gang." He stopped abruptly. His eyes widened like he'd gotten an amazing idea, "Ooh, _gang._ I love a gang!"

"Whoa!" Dean cried suddenly, "Who said we were working together?"

Everything went quiet. In the whirl of excitement, most of them had forgotten to mistrust each other - but not Dean. Now everyone was uncomfortable, staring awkwardly at Dean, since it was his fault for pointing out the weakest link in this plan. They simply didn't trust each other. The air was turning bitter. Sam quickly cleared his throat and said, "Dean, can I talk to you?"

Dean glanced over at Sam, and at his brother's peeved look, the two of them left the kitchen and went over by the windows. "Sam, this whole thing is weird." Dean said quietly, "I mean the alien is bad enough, but Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson – are you _kidding_ me?"

Sam nodded in agreement but at the same time he sighed. This wasn't a good idea. Not in the least. But it was the best idea they had, and Dean and Sam had done more with less many times before. Now he just had to convince Dean. Sam said, "Does it matter? We have a job, right? I think it's best if…"

"What?" Dean cut in. He looked at Sam with disbelief, "Don't tell me after your little heart-to-_stone_ chat with Sherlock yesterday that you're actually on board with all of this."

"Of course not!" Sam hissed, barely keeping his voice quiet. He glanced back other at the others. The Doctor was talking to John and Sherlock – well, John, since Sherlock didn't look as though he was paying attention. Castiel was watching them, probably listening in on their conversation. "I don't like this just as much as you, and I don't trust those guys either…"

"Then what were you doing with Obnoxious?"

Sam huffed, pressing his lips tightly together. "I just wanted to see if…you know…" his eyebrows bounced when he realised that what he was saying sounded ridiculous, "If he's like the one in the books…"

Dean stared at him incredulously, "You're joking right? Tell me you're joking."

Sam sighed, "Look, we need trust them or they won't trust us. If they're dangerous, we need to make sure we're there to stop them." Dean still didn't look convinced. Ever since he'd returned from Purgatory, Dean had been shifty around others. Sam knew he was still readjusting, but sometimes he felt as though Dean wasn't putting in the effort, like life and people no longer mattered to him. Sam shook off the thought and pushed on, "I think it's best if we stick with them for now. I mean – our _job_ is rescue Jack and stop whatever took him, and we know nothing about where he is or what those Weeping Angels things can do to us, but _the Doctor does!" _

Dean looked at him for a long moment, annoyed and reluctant, but at last he huffed out a loud sigh, "Fine!"

* * *

**A.N: **Okay, so just talking in this chapter. Sorry that the wait isn't better rewarded. But next time, our boys are going on a wild goose chase to save Jack and stop the Weeping Angels. But it doesn't end there. With rescuing Jack comes a load of new problems (and a lot of running.) Hope you enjoy it.

**Chapter Notes: **Things are going to be tense for this team for a while, which I thought was more in-character for these people. After all, Dean and Sam trust very few people and adding 'dickbag' or 'monster' to the equation won't really help that. In Sherlock series 1 episode 1, it was said that John has trust issues and Sherlock doesn't put his faith in people at all. As for the Doctor, he isn't a very trustworthy character to begin with and I doubt that he easily trusts others useless he has that 'spark' with them. Things will get bumpy, but I hope to build a strong relationship between each of these characters.

Interesting fact here: the original Sherlock Holmes, written by Arthur Conan Doyle, actually DID believe in God so I decided that the Sherlock in my story did once believe in God, but lost faith in him after Redbeard was put down. The Sherlock on the show seems to have abandonment issues, which is why he is so protective of the few friends he has so he wouldn't lose them. Also, before John, he didn't class anyone as a friend because he found it difficult to get close to them, which means he was lonely as a child, and Redbeard was his best companion – a friend who would listen to him and be there for him. In the show, Redbeard seems to play a significant part in Sherlock's character, since he is intimidated by the very mention of the dog, which is evidence for how emotionally attached to Redbeard he really was. When you lose something so dear to you, it can shake your faith and very few recover from that. Sherlock is one of them.

As for the 'Time Dispersal Energy' I got the idea from the Doctor Who series 2 episode 'Fear Her' which showed that whenever someone is moved in time/space, the amount of power it takes leaves a tingling feeling and a metallic smelt, so I figured it would be the same with the Weeping Angels since they do the same thing.

That's all folks. Thanks for reading.


	6. The Ghost Ship

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters but I am eternally envious of those who do.

**A.N: **Many thanks to Hoshi No Dansu (awesome name btw) for their review. I'm glad you're enjoying the story. Also my thanks to Peradite for their review regarding some of those errors. I'm British so I sometimes get confused with American slang/words and I know my spelling isn't exactly perfect so I really appreciate the help. I've gone back and edited out the errors I can see, but I will keep re-reading to be thorough. Also, I'm really glad you're enjoying the story and I hope you'll like this next instalment.

* * *

**Six**

The Ghost Ship

The TARDIS was like a hive... Or maybe a door... Or maybe even a trove...John listed the words in his head, trying to compare this impossible place – was it even a place? – to a familiar word that made sense to him. So far, his efforts were in vain. Instead, he looked over at Sherlock. He had that look on his face. The second look; the 'I'm being a nosy bugger' face as opposed to the usual 'we both really know what's going on here' face – 'we' meaning 'I' of course. John hated this face almost as much as the first. Things always ended badly with that face. Either, Sherlock got punched, or someone else got punched. Coincidently, it was the same face he was wearing when they first met Dean and Sam.

Either way, things just got serious.

It was at times like this that John was reminded of something Mycroft had said to him about Sherlock: _"He wanted to be a pirate." _Somehow that one simple statement had explained so much about the mysterious man, opening him up and humanizing him in a way John had never seen before. He wondered, despite all their feuds, if Mycroft actually did understand his brother, his needs, his hopes, his ideas and so on, and if he shared this particular piece of information when it held no relevance to what they were talking about because Mycroft - dare he say it - _cared._

Beneath the control panel, inside the TARDIS, there was a large space that opened out. In the centre was a metallic tree trunk-like structure which lead up through the floor and joined the console. Sherlock approached it confidently, running his hands along the smooth metal with pale hands and long fingers like he was searching for something. He noticed a rectangular sheet covering something up. Behind him, John watched him and suddenly realised how insanely _normal_ this was, if you ignored the location. Sherlock wedged open the panel with his lock-pick, and behind it there was a branch of wires strung together. Sherlock narrowed his greenish-yellow eyes, which appeared to be much closer to blue inside the TARDIS light, before he reached towards the wires.

John quickly said, "I don't think you should touch that."

Yellow sparks exploded with a high-pitched whir as Sherlock did just the opposite. Thankfully he was fine – he'd jumped back just in time not to get scalded. John sighed and shook his head.

Suddenly, the Doctor's head appeared, hanging down from the upper level. "Oi!" he cried, "What are you doing to my TARDIS? You're supposed to be up here giving me impressed looks!"

"Yeah, good luck with that one." John coughed. He headed back up the steps, ducking under the Doctor's head when he didn't move straight away. Upstairs, Dean was sat in one of the leather seats, digging his fingers into the fabric, and shakily humming Metallica under his breath. Sam was leaning against the railing, waiting patiently, while the angel Castiel was stood by the console. John didn't say anything to them, thinking that any statement made would be pointless and only increase the tension in the room. Instead, he took one of the four leather seats around the control panel, on the opposite side of Dean.

Meanwhile Sherlock slammed the cover back into its proper place. "Boring!" he chirped, sending a patronising smile at the Doctor.

The Doctor's mouth fell open. "My TARDIS is _not _boring!"

"Not interesting enough for me, I'm afraid." Sherlock hissed challengingly. He quirked an eyebrow at the Doctor, his eyes narrowing just a fraction - daringly so.

The Doctor held his gaze for a moment and then nodded. "Okay, fine." he said it like he was signing a deal: not reluctantly, but confidently, "You want to be impressed. _I'll_ impress you!"

John cringed. This was going to be the start of World War III, he just knew it! Sherlock couldn't stand having anyone else more impressive than he was; soaking up all the attention he wanted. That's why Sherlock and Mycroft could barely stand each other, and no one else could stand it when they were together. Unfortunately, the Doctor was not Mycroft. He was _worse._ He had the intelligence, the charm, the wit, and even had the better toys which made him all the more superior to Mycroft in Sherlock's mind. John imagined that Sherlock thought that if the Doctor could be beaten, then he'd be superior in every way. John suddenly imagined what it would be like to have the Holmes brothers and the Doctor all in one room, and he shuddered at the thought.

The Doctor stood and dashed to the control panel, hitting a few buttons and switches. "It's been a while since we've had this many guests, ay old girl?" The Doctor said, patting the console fondly. The TARDIS hummed in response, a sound from deep within the engine like the purring of a cat.

At this, Sam looked up curiously. He saw the way the Doctor stroked the TARDIS, heard the way he said 'she' – at first Sam thought it was like what Dean did with the Impala, 'Baby', and that he did it out of fondness for the machine. But this was different. The way the Doctor said 'she' was almost like the TARDIS was a friend rather than a pet or procession. It was said in a polite, but teasing manner. And then there was the way the TARDIS _responded…_

"It's _alive!" _Sam realised, belatedly, unable to stop the words slipping out in his surprise.

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock muttered, as he came back up the steps, "A _machine_ can't be alive."

At this, the Doctor looked outraged and was about to comment that the TARDIS was not a machine, but Castiel beat him to it. It was the first time he'd spoken since entering the TARDIS, although his silence wasn't due to shock, but more due to the warm familiarity of the place. He was stood with his palm pressed to the console and his eyes closed. The others didn't know this, apart from the Doctor, but Castiel had joined his consciousness with that of the TARDIS and was talking to her. "She's not a machine." He said, opening his eyes and drawing his palm away, "The TARDIS is a celestial being inside an intermolecular shell."

"A celestial being?" Sam echoed, "You mean it's – _she's_ – like an angel? And, what, this -" he gestured to the space around them with his finger, "- is like a vessel?"

Castiel nodded, "That is the basic principle. You see…"

He was cut off by the sharp scolding sound of the Doctor's clap. Everyone jumped and turned to him and the Doctor was smiling, but it looked forced. Castiel seemed to shrink in on himself. "Okay." the Doctor said casually, pointing a thumb at the TARDIS monitor, "The TARDIS has detected the trails of Time Dispersal Energy coming from Wester Drumlins. There's only two of them, which means there are two people we can rescue, and hopefully one of them is Jack." He pushed a lever, "Now, these trails don't last long – I'm not sure how long, but one of them is already fading – so we'll need to be quick. We're following the one that's fading so hopefully the other one will still be there when we get back. Let's have a look, shall we?"

The TARDIS hummed and the green column began to move up and down. The journey was much smoother this time round, although the ship still rattled and bumped against Dean's nerves, and the others still had to cling to something so they wouldn't fall over. The action-packed thrill of the first trip was clearly to impress the new guests. After a moment TARDIS stopped with a hollow clunk. The hums and whirs echoed into an anticipating silence. Everyone sat still for a moment, looking at one another, until each of them turned curiously to the doors. A brand new destination lay just beyond them – wherever that trail that taken them. Not even the Doctor knew. In truth, he didn't want to.

John was the first to ask, "Where are we?"

An excited grin spread over the Doctor's face. "I don't know." He whispered. In a blur, he pushed himself away from the console and bounded to the doors. Hesitantly, the others followed, until the Doctor suddenly halted and spun round to face them. "Actually, I _do_ know!"

The others frowned at him.

"We're in the past." He whispered mysteriously, "Right through those doors are the days long, _long _gone! Forget everything you thought you knew about the past, because this is the door to the truth." Without turning from the others, he clasped the handles, "There could be anything out there – no, there's _everything." _He glanced at Sherlock, "Are you ready?" He opened the TARDIS doors with a breath of anticipation. White light pooled onto their faces, momentarily blinding them in a moment of crackling tension. Dean shielded the light from his eyes and his eyebrows raised high at what he saw.

"Beds." Dean said.

The group were looking out at a pale white room with small beds stacked so closely together there was hardly room to breathe between them. There was a small bag on each of the beds, probably belonging to each of the occupants. Other than that there was nothing in particular that could be noted about the place.

The Doctor deflated faster than a balloon popping, "…Beds."

"Looks like a crappy motel." Dean continued, the voice of experience, as the others stepped out the TARDIS one by one and looked around. Luckily, the room was empty and no one had witnessed the impossible blue box appearing from nowhere, and the six men stepping out of the tiny space, like a circus act.

Frowning, the Doctor slammed the TARDIS doors shut. "Okay, fine. Beds!" he said, "_But!_ We're still in the past!"

No one was paying attention to him. Sherlock gave the Doctor a smug grin. The Doctor struggled to think of a witty retort and eventually turned away.

Across the room, Sam found a small leather-bound book underneath the pillow of one of the beds. It was quite heavy for such a small thing, and it was filled to bursting, the crispy pages hard brown from ageing. He opened it to a random page. There was a mass of un-neat scrawling, barely readable, on the page he was looking at. However, the date stood out in the middle of the page, circled and underlined, having some significance to the person who wrote it. "-'12th April 1912.'-" he read aloud, glancing up at Dean with raised eyebrows. Sam looked back at the journal. "This book looks older, though."

"Give it to me." Sherlock held out his hand towards Sam, but was too busy looking through someone else's belongings to spare him a glance.

Sam handed him the journal.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Oh, what will the great Sherlock Holmes deduce this time?" he said in an over-dramatic voice like the one the narrator would put on after the cliff hanger of a retro cartoon show.

"Stop talking. Brain thinking. Shush."

The Doctor laughed.

Sherlock turned the journal over in his hands, familiarizing the pads of his fingers with the roughness of it's surface. He opened up the cover and read the first few lines. Something about what was written there had intrigued him because his eyes widened a fraction. After a moment, he closed the book and said, "It's from the 1500's to 1600's."

"How did you work that out?" asked John.

"It's made from laid paper, which was the only type of paper used in those days."

Dean rolled his eyes, again. "So the dude likes vintage crap, who cares?" he said. He gestured to the exit, "Don't we have a Marty Mcfly to rescue?"

Castiel furrowed his brow as usual at the reference – it has become expected of him, almost, "I don't understand." He said, "I thought we were looking for Jack."

Sherlock also looked a little lost. He glanced up from the journal, "Who is Marty Mcfly?"

The room lapsed into silence.

"Wait a minute." Sam said after a moment. He bit back a smirk, "You know how to identify paper from touching it, but you haven't seen 'Back to the Future'?"

"That's nothing." John said, "He doesn't even know that the earth goes round the sun."

Dean burst into laughter. Sam pressed his lips together to stop him from doing the same. Sherlock gave John a murderous glare. John could only shrug apologetically. Dean almost doubled over from laughing, "What did you skip _grade_ school?" he cried hysterically.

Sherlock sighed loudly, "My _god_, it's not important!"

The Doctor said, "Stars are important."

"Moving on." Sherlock hissed at him, moving towards the door. He tucked the journal into his coat and then pulled the collars up so they framed his cheekbones, as an act to protect his dignity.

Dean stared at him, still smirking, "Oh dude, I can't believe you've never seen 'Back to the Future'!"

"Moving _on!"_

They left the TARDIS inside the room and stepped out into a long narrow corridor. At each end of the corridor there was a hip-high gate. They turned right and made they way down - lead by curiosity, but lead back by caution. About halfway down the corridor, Sherlock stopped and inhaled deeply through his nose. "Salt water." He murmured, trying to scrape some precious glory from the small deduction, "This is a cruise ship." When the group reached the end of the corridor, it steered right and left. On the wall there was a sign that said 'E Deck.' After climbing over the gate, they found a flight of stairs nearby and went up two levels before they got an inkling as to where they were. They turned off the stairs and towards where the sunlight and laughter beckoned them. When they stepped out into the fresh air the daylight, their eyes widened.

"Ahh, gentlemen." The Doctor smiled, throwing his arms out, "Welcome to the _Titanic!"_

They stood on the bow, mesmerised by the sight. The vast ocean was clear blue, spreading out before the deck like a blanket and the deck glowed in the sunlight, reaching out to the sea with a pointed tip. People were also on the deck - and this was most fascinating. Most of the women wore floral dresses, and some wore large fancy hats, decorated with ribbons and feathers. Other women wore more similar dresses, pain brown or blue ones, with long skirts. The men wore dark trousers, or dungarees, with plain white or blue shirts. Some of them wore ties. Others wore bow-ties. Some hats. Most of them had a long coat on. Oddly enough, with his clothes, the Doctor seemed to compliment this era well.

"Right!" the Doctor spun round to the others, raising a his hands when he spoke, "We need to search this whole ship top to bottom – or bottom to top, which would probably be easier: You know, I wonder why people actually say top to bottom. If it was a building then, yeah, that would make sense so you can…" he did a double take, _**"Oi!"**_

The others were already wondering off.

The Doctor sighed, "Every time, everyone just wanders off!" he stomped after them, "You know, it's a good thing this isn't a life-threatening planet, but there are still rules!"

Since Dean and Sam had gone on trips through time several times before, they had a different reaction to the _Titanic _than the Doctor was expecting but he put two-and-two together and noted that Castiel – who was more interested in the humans than the ship itself – must have taken them on a few adventures. He smiled at that. _Good old, Castiel. Still adventuring even after... _Just as soon as the smile appeared, it disappeared. The Doctor quickly pushed away the thought and went to round up the rest of the group before one of them got lost.

The Winchesters glanced round curiously – Dean eyeing some of the ladies that went by and Sam admiring the architecture of the _Titanic_. Dean playfully nudged his brother. "Every nerds dream, right?"

"Shut up." Sam scoffed, but he didn't take his eyes off the ship, thus proving Dean's point.

All the while, John was staring up with wonder at the red, black-tipped, funnels towering above the ship, as black smoke poured out of the first three. They were certainly a sight compared to the pictures he'd seen in his school text books. He glanced round to the bow of the ship and inhaled the cool salty air, a content smile on his face. When the Doctor caught up to him, the alien man smiled at him. He pointed at the funnels. "The fourth one's fake." he said, "They only needed three, but they thought four would make the ship look more impressive."

John stared at them a moment longer. He whispered, "This is...impossible. Fantastic, but impossible."

The Doctor grinned at him, "I know." His finger shot up and John almost flinched, "But! We have a mission, remember?"

"Oh, _yeah_!" Dean said with fake enthusiasm, "Find Jack, or _whoever_, on a ship with over 2000 people? Ha! Good luck with that one!"

"Over 2200 actually…" Sam said behind a cough.

There was certainly a lot of people where they were stood now. There was at least fifty at any one time, all coming and going like fleeting dreams. And to search the whole ship for just _one? _One they weren't even sure would be there? It seemed impossible.

John looked round and suddenly froze, realising that there were only five of them when there should of been six. "Where's Sherlock?" he asked, alarmed.

They looked round, and eventually they spotted him stood at the very tip of the bow. John went to go get him. Sherlock leaned over the railing, peering down at the sloshing water, the salty wind ruffling his dark curls, reminding him absently of a childhood dream. He peered into the water as though he was searching for something in the sloshing foam.

The others approached a couple standing together at the railing. The Doctor tapped the lady gently on the shoulder and showed a black leather case that looked like one of the FBI badges Dean and Sam used. "Excuse me." The Doctor said, politely, "I'm with the ship's security. Code-name: The Doctor. These..." he gestured to Dean, Sam and Castiel one by one as he introduced them, "...are my co-workers. Code-names: Jack, the Beanstalk, and the Golden Goose."

None of them were happy about those names.

He proceeded to ask them if they'd seen anyone strange on board the ship. Of course, the strangest looking people were actually Dean, Sam and Castiel themselves - this wasn't actually stated, but Sam could tell they were thinking it, as when the Doctor asked the question, two pairs of eyes slid over to them. However the couple hadn't seen anything else strange. "Okay." the Doctor said, "Thank you for your time." he turned away and Dean was frowning at him.

"Are you serious?" Dean asked, exasperated, "We're going to ask everyone on board for someone we don't even know will be here? How many trails did you say there were? Two? What happens if the person here isn't Jack? How are we supposed to find them?"

"This is a big ship. Over 2200 passengers, remember?" The Doctor said reassuringly, "Someone from the 21st century sticks out like a sore thumb! It'll be fine. Come on, let's ask those lot other there."

They searched on the deck for a while, asking passengers who passed by, but they didn't find anything that suggested there was a lost soul around. After a while, the Doctor decided that it was best to search elsewhere. Seeing this, John quickly tapped Sherlock on the shoulder. "Um...Sherlock. We're going now."

"Hmm?" Sherlock blinked and looked a little lost for a minute. Then he turned sharply, "About time." he spat, "It was tedious waiting!"

So, the Doctor, Dean, Sam, Sherlock, John and Castiel headed up the steps and through the first door they found, which lead them back indoors. The light shift gave the room a green tinge, but it was really a pleasant cream colour, like meringue, and the floor was a polished oak brown. As they walked, Sam asked the Doctor, "So, do you know Jack? You act like you do."

The Doctor nodded, "He's an old friend." He replied, "He used to travel with me."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "And you're certain this is the same Jack?"

The Doctor nodded, again. "I know it is." he said, and that was it - as though that one statement explained all phenomena in the universe.

After a while, they began to notice a change in scenery. The walls around them shifted from pleasant to elegant; gold trim lined the edge where the wall met the floor and more rich shades of reds, blues, and golds, began to dazzle them. Soon a new attraction came into view: the Grand Staircase. The clock atop the stairs chimed as they approached. Their footsteps rang out on the white marble floor. The stairs swooped up, and it's shimmering brown banisters looked gold in the sunlight pouring from the glass dome above.

"This is First Class." Sam pointed out, "Are we allowed here?"

The Doctor smirked and held up his badge, "We will be."

Dean and Sam exchanged looks.

There was a man, a guard of some sort, stood at the foot of the stairs. He regarded them with a suspicious look - the 'stink-eye' Dean called it - and stepped towards them, making it clear that he was not threatened by their numbers and was ready to kick them out if need be. However, before the guard could utter a word, the Doctor held up his badge and pressed it into his face. The man leaned back, adjusted his glasses, and peered closer at the badge. Alarm passed over his face and he quickly bowed his head, "My apologises, your Majesties. Excuse my ignorance. It will not happen again."

Dean tried not to gawk. He really did.

When they were out of ear-shot, Dean asked the Doctor, "Doc, what is that thing?"

"Psychic paper." He replied with a proud smile, "It says whatever I want them to think."

From then on, the hours were wound away with them asking passenger after passenger, men, women, and even some children, but they found nothing about Jack or anyone else strange on board the ship. Finding their way around the _Titanic _was also more difficult than each of them expected. The whole ship was a winding fortress of rooms and people and more rooms, and they were just confused stowaways, fumbling about like the strangers they were.

"You know it took two weeks for most people to find their way." The Doctor said to lighten the mood when the group got lost a fourth time.

Fortunately, they'd been able to talk to a lot of the passengers during this pursuit. Unfortunately, they hadn't found a thing. It was almost as if the person they were searching for was cleverly disguised, hidden in plain sight. Or maybe they were just really sneaky.

They stopped for a rest at the A La Carte Restaurant, on Dean's request. His stomach had begun to gurgle, and the restaurant was the closest food source they could see. They'd already visited the main dining saloon half an hour previously, but it was clear that the restaurant was much preferred from the amount of people present. The room was lit by picture windows, giving it an intimate romantic atmosphere compared to what they'd seen everywhere else. In fact, half of the tables in the restaurant catered for two people, whereas very few tables like this were offered in the main dining saloon. Axminster carpets covered the floors and small tables, which had seats for two to eight people, which suited the group nicely as they took their seats on a table for six. On each table there was a crystal lamp.

The Doctor slumped in his seat, pressing his lips together thinly. He sighed impatiently.

"We should give it time." Sam said, reasonably.

The Doctor jumped up suddenly like the very idea of sitting down and waiting burnt him, and he began to prance about the restaurant, talking to whoever he could - not necessarily to ask about strange passengers or sightings, but normal things the passengers would discuss. This varied from racing results to the magnificence of the _Titanic_. Sam watched him over the top of his menu when he noticed a man in the corner. Sam couldn't read his facial expression because he was hiding behind the glare of the light, but he knew he was staring at them. Sam looked down at his menu in embarrassment. He'd forgotten how other-worldly he and the others must look.

The Doctor had also noticed the man's staring, but he was much closer was was able to see beyond the flare of the crystal lamp and read the man's expression. The man was looking at the group like he'd seen them before - or in the very least seen someone like them. _Well, _the Doctor thought, _it's worth a shot. _He approached the man, who looked up startled, and showed him the psychic paper. "Hello, I'm the Doctor, blah-blah-blah...Have you seen anybody strange on board? Please!"

The man started again. He glanced at Sam, Dean, Castiel, John and Sherlock again before nodding.

"Other than them."

"Well..." he hesitated. He had a Scottish accent, and the Doctor felt his mood lift, "I did see this odd-looking boy."

The Doctor's two hearts surged at that. He only just resisted punching the air. _Finally! _he thought with relief and excitement. Quickly, he asked, "Was he here?"

The man shook his head, "I saw him pass the window last time I was here. About three days ago...um, Sunday. It was Sunday, I'm sure."

"Do you know where he went?"

"No." the man said, shaking his head, "But he was coming from the Poop Deck. Maybe you could ask there, if you're really that desperate."

The Doctor nearly bounced. He rushed back to the others, weaving past waiters and First Class passengers who stuck up their noses at him. "Guys, I've found something." he said with an excited grin when he reached the others, "Mysterious boy, strange clothes - I think we've found that sore thumb. Let's go!"

John asked, "Where are we going?"

"The Poop Deck."

Dean chuckled. Sam rolled his eyes.

The Poop Deck actually had nothing to do with lavatories, despite how it sounded. It was a deck at the stern of the ship that acts as a roof over the third-class cabins built in the rear of the ship, so in all technicality it was the stern deck. The third-class passengers, who hadn't any facilities built for them, liked to meet on the Poop deck to relax and play deck games when the weather was nice, like it was on that particular day.

When they arrived on the deck, John became tense. He was suddenly overcome by a very unkind sensation that he was surrounded by ghosts. Like a mirror shattering, the smoking funnels and shinning metal no longer blinded him from the bitter truth that the men had so foolishly tried to hide from. Feeling sick, John went to lean against the railing, as the others went about their mission, still caught in the illusion of false security.

Dean spotted a group of very attractive women stood by the railing. Compared to the clothing of the first class women, these women wore simpler clothing, but looked relatively stylish with what they could afford. Unable to resist, he put on his best smile, and approached them.

"Hey, there, ladies."

Dean could have smacked himself.

The four women each turned a confused smile. One of them, who had dark hair pinned up in a tight bun, asked, awkwardly, like he'd spoken a different language. "Excuse me?"

"Um…"

"Don't mind him!" The Doctor quickly intervened, showing the psychic paper to the women, who looked pleasantly surprised by whatever they saw there. "We're just…um, investigating." He tapped Dean on the nose with the psychic paper, "Yes, that's right. Investigating! Lovely weather isn't it? – Now, have you heard about the mysterious little boy in strange clothes running around? He's with us, you see. We don't want him getting into trouble." The Doctor chuckled and, behind him, Sam cleared his throat.

"He's asking if you've seen anything strange." He translated.

The group of women looked thoughtful. One of them, who wore a long-sleeved brown frock, fitted tightly around her waist, and had red hair pinned back, said, "We did see the little boy, if that's what you mean. He went with the tall, handsome man."

Sam asked, "What did he look like? The tall man, I mean."

"He had dark hair, blue eyes, and a long blue coat."

"No." one of the other women burst out, "It was grey!"

"It was blue, Ethel."

Ethel wrinkled her nose.

"What does it matter?" Dean muttered, under his breath, "About million people here fit that description."

Sam stood on his foot, and he yelped.

"Where did they go?" the Doctor asked the women to distract them from Dean, "Did you see?"

The dark haired woman replied, "I think they went to the Officer's Quarters."

"Are you sure?"

The woman nodded, "I heard them talking." She said, guiltily, "The man said that the First Mate could take the boy home. It did not make a lick of sense."

"Thank you." the Doctor said and bounced towards were John and Castiel were. Sherlock was not far from them, reading the journal he'd collected from the cabins, uninterested in everything else around him. The Winchesters followed and the six of them came together once more. The Doctor grinned at them and quickly explained about the boy and the man going to the Officer's Quarters. He glanced round at everyone - which was when he noticed the look of distress, though it was well hidden behind his facial mask, in John's eyes. "You okay, John?"

John was frowning at the ground, shrouded by a uncomfortable thought. "I just remembered. All these people are dead."

The air suddenly became very cold. Everyone was quiet. Each of them missed the freedom of child-like ignorance that had suddenly been swept away like the ice cold ocean that swept away the ice frozen corpses of those who surrounded them.

Sherlock inhaled sharply. "Weren't we going to the Officer's Quarters?" He blurted harshly. Whether it was out of honest impatience and disinterest towards the matter of questioning the dead, or whether he preferred not to face unanswerable questions; it was unclear. "I believe we should get going _now_." He turned to march away in a purposely unknown direction, but the Doctor stopped him by grabbing his arm.

"One minute." The Doctor said. "As much as I'm sure that you all want to go home and forget this, _don't. _Look at those people." He pointed out a group of children running across the deck and giggling, "Remember their smiles, their laughs, and, most of all, remember their sacrifice. If these people hadn't died, the _Titanic_ would have just have been another ship that sunk – but these people; these mothers, fathers, children; they are the gravity of humanity's mistakes. Just like Chernobyl, Hitler, Pearl Harbour, Hiroshima – and no. In no way does this justify what happened. It doesn't make it all right. But we have to learn from their mistakes. Why repeat the same mistakes over and over again? So look at them and remember. If you ever find yourself in a situation where history is repeating itself, remember the consequences your actions will have, and _change them."_

The Doctor met each one of them with unwavering eyes, daring them to speak, but no one did. Eventually, he moved away from them and went on his own up the stairs and down the walkway towards the Officer's Quarters, not looking back to see if the others followed or not.

When the others left, John lingered, still watching the people on the deck. He remembered why he'd become a solider: to help people, to save people. John screwed his eyes shut and sighed. It had been amazing at first, seeing the _Titanic, _but now he wished he'd just wake up and go back to solving cases with Sherlock. On the other hand, Sherlock's curiosity and need to be the cleverest in the room was driving forwards into this strange new world. John wasn't like that. He didn't adjust easily. When he came back from the war, it had taken months for him to find his place in the civilised world. Meeting Sherlock had helped him through all that – but he wasn't sure it would work like that this time round. Sherlock was already stumbling ahead, adapting, leaving him behind. Perhaps when all this was over, the two of them would find a dangerous case and forget all this. Danger was John's remedy. With this in mind, John opened his eyes and followed the others down the walkway.

Everyone was quiet as they walked.

The Doctor lead them, weaving through the crowds, and showing the psychic paper to anyone who gave them an odd look. At last they came to the area outside the Officer's Quarters. A group of officers, who were currently on their break, where stood together, talking loudly. The Doctor approached them alone, the other's hanging back with a subconscious dislike of obedience. "Excuse me." He said, and the officers turned to look at him, and like everyone else, they looked over his strange clothes. The Doctor held up the badge and said, "I'm looking for the First Mate?"

"That's me." one of them said, "Mr Freely, at your service." The First Mate, Mr Freely, was a skinny man with pale blue eyes and light brown stubble along his jawline. Sandy-brown hair stuck out in uncomfortable tuffs from under his cap – he didn't look like he should be wearing that hat. He smiled and his face crinkled up, making it look forced. The Doctor quickly explained that he'd rather talk in private and lead Mr Freely down the walkway to where the others were waiting. Then the strangest thing happened.

Dean, Sam, and Castiel froze in shock. So did Mr Freely.

Mr Freely shook his head incredulously. "You have got to be bloody _joking!"_ he hissed. "Really, boys, how _desperate_ are you to come all the way out _here_ to get me, with your extra band of Musketeers? Actually, don't answer that."

Dean stared in shock. He hadn't seen him in two years – he'd helped him and Sam, and then disappeared off the face of the Earth – and he hadn't expected to see him ever again. He was so surprised all he could say was, "Balthazar."

"Yes. Well done." The First Mate – Balthazar, apparently – mocked, "Now, keep it down. I'm undercover."

John looked between the Winchesters, Castiel and Balthazar with disbelief. "You know him?" he said, "How?"

"He's an angel." Castiel murmured. He looked deathly pale. Before this point, he hadn't fully understood the distress it had caused to be surrounded by the dead, but with the presence of his fallen brother - no, his _murdered_ brother - he appreciated the enormity of it. He felt his stomach churn, and a piecing in his chest like he'd been stabbed. The feeling only intensified when Balthazar looked at him, completely unaware of what the future would bring, for this was a past version of Balthazar.

Balthazar frowned at Castiel "You're not the Castiel of now…" Balthazar paused, raised his eyebrows, and began again, "You're not the Castiel that sent me here."

Sam said, "We're from 2013."

Balthazar laughed, a harsh sharp sound, "You mean the world's still standing in 2013? Bravo, boys, you're doing okay." then he absently added, "I wonder how you'll be in three years' time."

Dean blinked with horror and confusion, "Wait, what?" he said but his question was drowned out by the Doctor saying, "Why were you sent here?" at the same time.

"Is this an interrogation?" Balthazar spat.

Sam quickly explained, "He un-sunk the _Titanic_."

John narrowed his eyes in confusion, "What do you mean he un-sunk the _Titanic?"_

So, Sam and Dean quickly went over the story of how Balthazar went back in time to save the _Titanic, _so the James Cameron movie would never be created. However, when Fate found out, he had to go back and re-sink it because hundreds of people who survived had effected the future so greatly – which is why this version of Balthazar was there at the moment.

John scowled at this, "You're saying those people were meant to die. That God planned it or something?"

Balthazar scoffed, "Dad didn't sink the _Titanic." _There was an accusation in his voice that made Dean, John, and Sam very uncomfortable.

The Doctor glanced around, partly out of unease and partly out of curiosity, and a few passengers were staring. He quickly said, "We should take this conversation somewhere else."

Lead by the angel Balthazar, the group inside and through the ship until they came to the bridge. The room was bright from the sunlight bleeding through several large windows. There was a bronze wheel in the centre, just in front of the windows, and on either side of it were two other men, the helmsmen, who usually stand watch with the First Mate. They turned sharply and stood straight when they entered, but confusion shone in their eyes at the unauthorised guests. Balthazar said to them, "You boys are excused for the moment. I'll handle the rest of the watch."

They hesitated, looking at one another nervously.

Balthazar rolled his eyes. He stepped forward and placed one hand on each of the two men shoulders. "Boys, boys, boys…" he said with a sigh, "I said you could leave."

The men's faces became a blank. Mesmerised, the two helmsmen gave a salute and marched off the bridge like wooden puppets. Dean watched them leave with wide eyes. He said, "Did you just Obi-Wan Kenobi them?"

Balthazar just smirked, taking a sip of his drink through a straw which had suddenly appeared in his hand. He said, "So, future-boys, what ever can I do for you?"

"We're looking for a kid." Sam said, "Apparently he came here with a this one other dude?"

"Oh yeah." Balthazar murmured, more to himself than anyone else, "Right pain in the backside that Jack was."

The Doctor head snapped up. "Did you say Jack?"

"Hmmm?" Balthazar said, blinking. He'd completely ignored everyone in favour of his own thoughts, "Yeah, yeah. Captain Jack Harkness. Said he was a specialist. What does it matter? You're looking for the kid. He's right here."

When Balthazar waved his hand, a boy suddenly appeared in the room with them. He was wearing scrappy jeans and a dirty red hoodie. His T-Shirt was pale yellow and had Spongebob Squarepants on the front. He looked about ten, maybe younger, and his face was a light brown and he had dark blonde locks. There was something strikingly familiar about him, like they'd seen his face before: green eyes, rounded face...

It was Sam who made the connection, "Are you...March Denton?" the boy didn't reply but the way he tensed up was enough to confirm it. He was one of the missing persons from the report - he'd lived on Fields Park Avenue before he'd disappeared into Wester Drumlins.

"Sent here by the Weeping Angels." Balthazar confirmed, "Here I was, minding my own business with my good self for amazing company, when I'm approached by Mr Sex himself with this kid in tow. He wanted me to send them back to the 21st century. Of course I accepted out of the goodness of my heart."

"Bullshit." said Dean.

Balthazar pretended to be offended for a moment, but then shrugged, "You're right." he admitted, "But I did accept. He just had to...sweeten the deal."

"Acting like a demon." Dean shook his head, although he wasn't really surprised. When he first met Balthazar, he was making deals so he could steal people's souls and before that he'd stolen weapons from Heaven's vaults - Castiel had said he'd once been a great warrior, but Dean couldn't see it. "You haven't changed."

Balthazar just raised his eyebrows at him. "If I pretend your opinion matters, will you stop whining like the hairless ape you are?"

Dean scowled, but didn't speak.

The Doctor asked, "What happened to Jack?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." Balthazar muttered. He wandered round to where March was and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, but March flinched away. Balthazar ignored this. "First of all, you're not getting anything else out of me unless we play this my way."

Castiel winced and shook his head. "Balthazar..."

"Don't do you're puppy-eyed threatening side-stare on me, Cas! We're not Fledglings any more." Balthazar snapped, but there was a hint of affection behind it also. He turned back to the others, and gave a crooked smile, "An answer for an answer. You ask a question, I answer. I ask a question, you answer."

"Sounds fair." John said before anyone else could speak. He adjusted how he was stood and hardened his face into the emotionless shield he wore to battle. "What do you want to know?"

Balthazar smirked at John, "This one knows how to play. But my first question is for my brother." he turned sharply back round to Castiel, his face enraged, "What. The. _Hell?"_

Castiel seemed to know what he was talking about. "Balthazar _please_..."

"No, seriously - you're with the _Doctor?_" Balthazar hissed. He turned and glared at the Doctor. The Doctor quickly hid his surprise, but Balthazar spotted it, "Yes, I recognise you. You look different but your soul never changes – not to mention the beating hearts gives it away." he spun back to Castiel, "I don't care if you're searching for the Queen of Sheba, you don't go to the one man you swore to stay away from for help!"

"It was an accident."

"What going on?" Dean asked, ignoring Sam's disapproving glare, hoping to get some insight into the Doctor's and Castiel's relationship.

Balthazar turned from Castiel for a moment. He glanced at Dean and then moved round towards the Doctor, "You may not know it but you're in the presence of one of Heaven's Most Wanted." he said, stopping in between Castiel and the Doctor, and glaring at the alien, "He's a Time Lord - a _parasite_! If that's not bad enough, he also happens to be Cas's best childhood buddy until..."

"Do not repeat the events of that day, Balthazar!" Castiel bellowed, stepping threatening towards Balthazar, and Balthazar turned, out of instinct, to face him, "If you think you can steer me away by reminding me of the past, you're wrong! What happened is between the Doctor and I." then, much softer, he added, "I know you're trying to protect me, but I can look after myself."

The air crackled with energy. Everyone fell silence, cautious. In the corner, March looked positively petrified. Dean went to comfort him, his steps explosive in the silence of the room.

"I think it's our turn for a question, don't you think?" John said, a while into the silence. He realised he was the only one who could add to the conversation: he didn't understand the sudden tension in the room, but he knew it was there and he had to get rid of it. Sherlock certainly wasn't going to. He was too busy basking in it. "What did you want from Jack?"

Balthazar and Castiel held each others gaze for a moment longer, before Balthazar looked away - not in a way that showed defeat, but in a way that showed an understanding of his brother's nature: Castiel could be quite stubborn when he had too. "A Core Chamber." Balthazar said at last, "The only one of it's kind. It makes one hell of a weapon when you know how to use it. A guy like me could use a thing like that. So I told Jack if he fetched it for me, I'd send him and the kid home. Of course, I kept the kid for leverage."

"So you don't know where he is?"

Balthazar gave a mischievous smile, "Ah, my turn." he pointed out and John pressed his lips tighter together, "Thing is, I sent him away three days ago, and I haven't heard from him since. So how about I send you after him? You get me the Core Chamber. You get Jack and snot-nose over there. How's that sound?"

"Okay then," Sam said, "But, March comes with us."

Balthazar smiled, "Yeah, I don't think so." he said and with a flick of his wrist, March vanished with a startled gasp, right in front of Dean's eyes.

Dean blinked and spun round to Balthazar, "What the hell do you want with him?" he demanded, leaping to his feet - he quickly held himself back from attacking. Angels were not to be messed with, especially ones like Balthazar.

"Same thing I told Jack: Leverage." Balthazar replied, "He gives you a reason to do as you're told. So, do we have a deal?"

John said, "Tell us where you're sending us first."

"Kembel."

The Doctor went still. He stared at Balthazar with extremely wide eyes, filled with horror and disgust and disbelief. He murmured, "Say that again."

"_Kem..." _Balthazar drawled, "_...bel."_

The Doctor's wide eyes went sharp and he glared at the angel, "That's the most hostile planet in the universe!" he cried, pushing into the angel's personal space. The others looked at him in surprise. This man was so much different to the cheery man he'd been just a few minutes before. It was like a darkness had taken hold of him, a threatening rage towards the one who put Jack in danger. "You send anyone there, they're dead!"

Balthazar held his gaze, but he pressed himself back against the wall. There was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, but he hid it with a smile. "…And?" He took a long slurp from his drink, the sound of the air in the straw filling the room. After a moment, he slipped out of the Doctor's space, not touching him, and said, "You know, you lot have all got one thing in common. Deep down, no matter if you want to admit or not, you think you're amazing little heroes. So, _heroes_, go save him."

Sherlock said, "What happens if we die?"

Dean rolled his eyes, "Gee, thanks Sherlock."

"Just being logical." Sherlock said, not looking away from Balthazar, "If we're getting sent to 'the most hostile planet in the universe' then we're likely to die. If we die, then there's no way we can complete your deal."

"Try not to die then."

"We'll be back." Dean said meeting Balthazar with a fierce gaze. "Call you on Angel Radio."

Balthazar pulled a face at him and, throwing Castiel a cautious look - one last exchange between brothers that felt like a mixture between a warning and concern - he flicked his wrist and sent the six of them hurling through time and space.

* * *

**Chapter Notes: **I had many different locations for this chapter to take place in including: Pearl Harbour, Pompeii, the Battle of Hastings, the Tunguska event, and many more. This chapter is a lot different to how I originally planned however. Originally, the group would have spilt up (John, Dean, and Castiel) and (The Doctor, Sherlock and Sam). John's group went to Wester Drumlins to stop the Weeping Angels and the Doctor's team went to the past to rescue Jack. The main reason I changed this was because I wanted them to learn to work together as a team and start developing trust between the characters.

**Why I chose the Titanic – **I'll be honest, at first there was no other reason besides that Balthazar was there, but then when I did my research I began to form more threads that I wanted to talk about. The ultimate question is 'If you had a time machine, would you go back and change what happened?' I personally don't like the whole 'it's a fixed point blah, blah, blah' I think it's used too often ad it's a really lazy writing tool and brushes over what could be a very interesting theme. Instead of doing that, I decided to put my own response to this question. I got a lot of inspiration for my answer when I watched the interview with Eva Hart, a survivor of the Titanic (Jan 31st 1905 – Feb 14th 1996.) Eva Hart also said 'the whole thing was a tribute to man's arrogance' which I completely agree with.

**Balthazar - **The way this story is going is that I have a lesson for each of the characters that they need to learn. Including Balthazar in this chapter was part of Castiel's learning process. I tried to present him as the same old Balthazar we know and love, while also adding a bit more to his protective brother/friend and loyalty towards Castiel that was presented in his first episode 'The Third Man' and a few of his episodes since. He was also a good tool for showing a little more insight into the Doctor's and Castiel's past relationship, and what he thought/thinks of it. I've already mentioned in chapter 4 that the Doctor had met angels and it hadn't gone well, so this was really a build-up on that. Balthazar was also a tool for me to explore the question of 'why does God allow bad things to happen?' Since God has been repeatedly mentioned in the Supernatural universe, I felt it was appropriate to address this. The Titanic tragedy was an accident, but it was caused by multiple bad choices that eventually built up to it. While it's okay to believe in God[s], Fate, Karma, good/bad luck, you cannot blame them when you make a mistake which leads to bad things happening. Balthazar is also another example of the theme. Castiel started making mistakes, and Balthazar got in the way.

But, anyway, thanks for reading everyone. Stay tuned for the next instalment.


	7. Disorientation

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters or places mentioned in this work of fiction apart from Haley.

**A.N: **Thanks everyone for your patience.

* * *

**Seven**

Disorientation

Long ago, back when everything was fine, John Winchester took his sons fishing. While Sam was far too young to remember it, it was something Dean would never allow himself to forget. It was his last memory of that kind of life before it was filled with blood and torture. Sometimes, when the wind was in the right direction or maybe when life decided to be kind, he would visit the same lake where they fished together in his dreams, and sit on the beach with a rod in his hand. He wouldn't care if he never caught any fish; he'd just listen to the sweet sound of silence and watch a topaz sky swirl around his small world. He was by the lake now, however this time was different. It was dark, and the sky was red like blood and the water was as dark as tar. Still, he sat on the beach, with his fishing rod in his hand like whenever he dreamed of this place. But his shoulders were tense. He had a feeling that he wasn't alone.

It only took a moment for _her _to appear.

"This is a nice place." At the voice, Dean glanced up at the woman who had not been there before. His infamous stalker. Whenever he saw her, she was wearing a white dress and the white orchid in her hair, but her hair style was always different. The blondish-brown curls where now tied up in a tight bun. "Death used to visit me in the Veil and tell me stories about beautiful places. This lake reminds me of a story he once told me about two friends who met by a lake. But they were a doomed friendship right from the start. One day, there was a rupture between them that neither of them could recover from. It was a sad story."

"He's a sad guy." Dean muttered. He shifted the rod between his clammy hands, wishing it was a gun so he could shoot the woman out of his head and wake up. It was strange; he didn't remember going to sleep. He remembered the heat and confusion, and the yelling, the arguing, and the feeling of being suffocated by it all, so much so that when it ended and he found himself here, it was a relief.

A relief that was very short-lived, apparently.

The woman glanced down at him for a moment. Her face was always blank, even when she was warning him about the Weeping Angels - not a very helpful warning, mind you - she was like a doll. Dean found himself irritated by it and turned away from the intruder. He looked out over the ugly blood-black lake. "You're a ghost, aren't you?" he said. He felt the ghost nod rather than see it. He already knew he was right: that research he did while Sam was shopping was thorough. "What the hell do you want with me?"

"Justice."

Dean spun back around in surprise.

The spirit shrugged. "I thought it was a good answer." She said absently. The woman brushed a loose hair behind her ear and then held out her hand to Dean, "We haven't been properly introduced. My name is Haley."

Dean eyed her hand like it was a snake."You already know who I am." he pointed out and Haley lowered her hand, curling her fingers in on themselves as if they were wounded. "Why are you following me? You do know I'm hunter, right? I could blast you with rock salt any time I wanted."

"Except you won't." Haley replied, "You want answers."

Dean paused. "...Are you going to give them to me?"

"No."

Turning back to the lake, Dean huffed quietly. He watched the water wash up against the sand and stain it black, but he didn't wonder why. "Why the hell are you here, then?"

"I've always been here. You just haven't noticed."

"Excuse me?"

Haley gave him a thin smile. "Don't let me wound your hunter pride. I'm not your average spirit."

"Okay. I'll bite. What kind of spirit are you?"

There was a shift in the air. Dean felt it as though his whole body had completely moved.

"Walk with me." Haley said and suddenly they were walking through a silver forest. Orange sunlight sprinkled down from the sky and made the leaves look as though they were on fire. As Dean glanced round, he noticed that behind and ahead there was nothing but blackness, but when they walked towards it, trees would sprout up and a path would appear to carry them. It was like walking through a black fog.

Dean looked at Haley. "What is this place?"

Haley smiled. "This is one of the places Death told me about, or at least how I imagine it to be. I wanted to visit it sometime, but it's gone now. It's like it just vanished from the universe."

"Yeah..." Dean said sceptically, "See, I know Death, and he doesn't seem like the kind of guy to stop around and tell little girls bedtime stories. Especially ones that steal from him and pin it on someone else."

There was a shudder of guilt in her otherwise emotionless eyes. Dean surged with triumph, knowing he'd pierced something. In his pocket, he felt Death's ring start to burn, as though it knew it was being talked about. Dean glared against the pain and stared hard at the side of Haley's head, hoping she could feel the burning of his eyes on her. Dean saw Haley's shoulders tense as he asked, "Why did you give it to me in the first place?"

Haley pursed her lips together for a moment, inhaling sharply through her nose. "As a means to an end." she replied, a moment later.

Dean scoffed. "You're dead." he stated, "What other 'end' is there?"

Haley glared at him, clearly trying to exercise control now. "You, of all people, should know that death isn't the end. Or did you forget? Must be a Tuesday."

Dean levelled his shoulders. "So, you really have been watching me the whole time. Why?"

That question struck another nail. Haley lost her control and her eyes became cloudy. For a moment, Dean was overcome with the sensation that he was looking into a fun house mirror. "Like I had a choice." Haley murmured.

Dean blinked, shaking his head to get rid of the feeling. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"What does it matter? You want me gone, right? Okay fine -" She held out her hand, "Give me Death's ring, and you'll never see me again."

Dean stiffened. As much as he wanted to get rid of it, Dean didn't trust the way she suddenly shifted the conversation, looking at him with those pleading eyes. Besides, something about this was wrong. Dean could feel it in his gut.

"It's the only reason you can see me now." Haley was saying, "It's powerful. When you wear it, you have the power to take a soul from it's dying body. When you hold it, you can see and hear the spirits bound."

Dean already knew that. He also knew that Death's ring was one of four that could free Lucifer from his cage - and that there was no way he was going to just hand it over to whoever asked for it! "You know what? I think I'll keep it."

Her eyes widened. "You can't!" she stopped and cleared her throat, trying to regain some control, "Death knows you have it. He sent me to come and get it."

Dean gave her a tight smile and said, "And how do I know that this isn't a load of crap? How do I know that you don't want the ring for your own gain? In fact, how do you I know you're not behind all of this?" Dean waved a hand to their surroundings.

There! A flash of rage in those eyes. No matter how strange she acted, Dean knew she was no different to any other spirit he'd faced: angry, vengeful, killers. ...Yet, even as Dean thought that, his stomach turned over. It felt wrong: like when Bobby died and came back. He was a spirit. A vengeful one at that. But he was still Bobby - but why did Dean feel the same about Haley? Almost like he knew her?

"It's not like that!" she hissed, "I'm not that kind of spirit!"

"Oh yeah? What kind of spirit are you, then?"

"I'm a..." she stopped short and Dean twitched. Haley stared hard at him for a stretched moment, and then she chuckled. "Right. Smart. You almost had me blurting out everything."

There was a gap of silence spread out between them, and then: _"Dean! Can you hear me, Dean?"_

Dean felt something slap his cheek and everything around him tipped on its axis. Haley glanced around as the world swirled around them. "Although, right now, I think you have more important things to worry about." she turned to him sharply, "Do you even know why you're here? You were knocked out, Dean! You and your friends were attacked."

Horrified, Dean realised that he didn't remember! He tried to think back but he couldn't. Were they attacked? He remembered someone shouting…no lots of people shouting. With that horror coursing through his blood, his body re-started, and Dean woke with a jerk to find himself surrounded by darkness and noise. He could hear strange bird cries and the chirping of insects, and somewhere nearby there was a bubbling creak, but Dean couldn't really see anything beyond the blur of his own eyes and he couldn't feel anything beyond the ringing in his skull. "Dean!" came that firm voice again that had called to him in his dream, "Dean. Look at me. Focus on me." Through the glaze Dean saw bronze-sapphire eyes. He tried to sit up but he was suddenly overcome by dizziness and passed out again.

* * *

_The sudden change from the icy cold air of the sea to the hot and humid air of the jungle was like a punch in the gut. Even more shocking was the way the sea and ship transformed into a shroud of green. Instead of sleek decks, trees surrounded them like an angry tribe. The noise of unidentifiable insects and creatures didn't pause as the six new arrivals appeared in a bed of reddish-purple mushrooms, in the shape of scrunchies and the size of footballs, which had been left undisturbed until that moment in time. The mushrooms burst and crunched under their feet as the Doctor, Castiel, Sherlock, John, Sam and Dean recovered from the spiralling journey Balthazar sent them on._

_John gripped his knees dizzily. His face was pale with shock. "Okay...That was unpleasant."_

_Sam looked at him sympathetically. "Yeah, we probably should have warned you about that. Travelling with angels is a bitch."_

_They waited a moment to readjust themselves. The Doctor was perfectly fine, informing them that he'd travelled with angels before – at this, Dean looked at Castiel with a raised eyebrow – and he waded out of the lake of mushrooms and onto higher land, scrabbling up the mud-slope and to his feet so he could look around. The mushrooms were growing in a ditch, where the soil was damper where rain water had trapped there. Dean rolled his eyes and punched past the gigantic purple fungi and climbed out of the ditch onto a slippery mud slope. He was suddenly reminded of his time in Purgatory where he and the Vampire Benny waded through mud and blood day after day. The practise suddenly came into good use, and Dean managed to haul himself out of the mud without much difficulty. After each of them had climbed out of the mushroom pool they looked around them at the jungle world – Kembel._

_It was a vast creeping place. Like a row of pointed teeth, a chain of mountains caged them with suffocating greenery. Even the sky was hidden: covered by thick treetops, isolating them from the familiar. Seeing this, John felt a cloak of unease settle on his shoulders and his face hardened. Sam and Dean were glancing round, analysing the place for themselves. They appeared to be on a cliff of some sort. From where they were stood, through the leaves, they could see where the cliff slopped down into a large valley. It was very steep – they weren't likely to survive if any of them fell. All around them were trees that seemed to stretch up forever. The Doctor stepped forwards to the edge of the cliff and scanned the landscape with heavy eyes. "Hello again." He murmured absently to the planet. He bent down and raked his fingers through the soil. He picked up a handful and sniffed it carefully before throwing it down again._

_Dean watched him for a moment. He looked at Sam, who raised his eyebrows and cocked his head, motioning to the Doctor. Dean looked back at the alien and said, slowly, "_Soooo_…'Heaven's Most Wanted' huh?" _

_The Doctor paused in his movements. Castiel glanced between the two men._

_"It's a story for another time." Castiel said firmly, before anyone else could speak or raise a question, "We should focus on locating Jack Harkness. If there no other people besides him and us and if he's out in the open, I should be able to fly round the planet and locate him."_

_"No!" The Doctor all but shrieked, spinning round to him with a look of pure horror._

_Everyone stared at him._

_"No." he said again, much calmer this time. "We stick together. Got it?"_

* * *

When Dean woke up the second time, he saw a sliver of sky peeking through the tree tops above him. In that tiny gap, he could see hundreds of stars twinkling against a cloak of purple and black clouds. He shifted and heard the crunch of leaves under his back, and then he remembered the voice that called out to him."John?" he called, hoping desperately that the man would answer.

"Right here." John's voice called back. He sounded like he was far away and Dean could barely here him over the bubbling of the creak. "Don't move. I'm coming over now." Dean heard something shift and then almost jumped when he felt a hand on his forehead. "Stay still while I put this on your swelling."

Dean leaned away from the touch. "Where's Cas? He'll patch me up."

"Cas isn't here."

Dean paused. Cas wasn't...? Dean waited for an explanation. The Doctor had taken his over protective stick out of his ass and let Castiel search for Jack, maybe? That would be a relief - but the way John was looking, his lips tight and his eyes focused on Dean's injury; his work, Dean guessed that this was not the case. Dean tried to strain his neck to see where Sam and the others where, but he couldn't see them. He suddenly got the sense that something was very wrong. "Where's Sammy?" he demanded.

"Sam isn't here either."

Dean jotted upwards so suddenly that his stomach leapt up and began to crawl its way up his throat! Dean threw up on the grass as John rubbed his back.

"You have a concussion." John explained gently, looking up at the sky for comfort. "You'll feel sick and will most certainly get a headache. If you have any other symptoms you need to tell me straight away. We also need to find somewhere safe you can rest. And...We're on our own now, Dean. Sorry."

Dean groaned, wiping phlegm from around his nose and mouth on his sleeve. "Hold on. We can just call Cas, right?" John didn't look too sure, but Dean did it anyway. He called out to Castiel and waited. He tried again, and waited. And again. Each time, nothing. Dean sighed, "Awesome."

John tired to stop him as Dean tried again to stand up. "You need to take it easy! Concussions are very serious."

"Dude!" Dean waved him off, "I'm fine."

Dean passed out again.

* * *

_There was yelling, although Dean couldn't remember why they were yelling at one another. His memory was in fragments, and the argument was a piece that was missing. However, he vaguely remembered what came after._

_Sometime into the argument, the Doctor said something that made everyone fall into a stale silence. Soon they realised that the jungle around them had too gone silent, filling with the creeping sensation that they were being watched by intelligent eyes. Intelligent because, as Sherlock pointed out seconds after it happened in urgent thinking, whoever it was had chosen to dispose of the most powerful one in their group._

_That's why Castiel was attacked._

"_Cas!" Dean cried, but Castiel was gone: he'd been flung off the cliff by something none of them could see and fallen into the valley below. Dean expected him to fly back up, but he didn't._

"No!"_ came the Doctor's strangled cry. He charged forwards to where Castiel had been, but something punched him in gut and sent him hurtling back. _

_Dean and Sam stood by each other; weapons steady in their hands; eyes searching the trees. _

* * *

The next time when Dean woke up, it was nearly morning. The light stung his eyes like someone had poured lemon juice inside them and he groaned, closing his eyes against the pain. After a moment, he tried to roll over, but there was a giant mass clinging to his head. "My head feels heavy." He said, to no-one in particular.

John replied, "That's because it's the size of a surfboard. I'm putting some cold bandages on it to hopefully help the swelling settle."

Dean let John hoist his head up and wrap something that was cold and heavy around his crown. It soothed his ravished head, but it did nothing to sooth the drilling he felt inside. As John lowered him back to the ground, Dean noticed that John was shirtless.

"I didn't have any cloth." John said, shrugging. It was humid and damp in the jungle anyway, so John couldn't complain. "There's no opening so you won't get an infection, if that's what you're worried about."

"You a doctor, or something?"

"I am, actually."

Dean hummed. "I didn't know that."

John's lips pressed into a thin line, "Well, we didn't have much time to chat in between me fracturing your jaw and fighting monsters." he gave him an apologetic look. "Sorry about that."

Dean smiled a little to show that he was okay with it, and then cringed as a throbbing pain started in the pit of his stomach, "Ugh…I feel sick…"

"Symptoms of a concussion. Nothing to worry about. Open up." Dean surprised himself by obeying and John put something on his tongue, "It's a paracetamol. Swallow."

It took three attempts, but Dean managed to swallow the tablet dry. He slowly eased himself up onto his elbows and looked round, without moving his head. He didn't recognise the place, but he wasn't sure if that was because of the concussion or if they genuinely had moved since last night - at least he thought it was last night. "What happened? Where's Sam?"

"What do you remember?"

"Arguing with the Doc." Dean answered truthfully, "Then I woke up here. And...there was a lot of yelling."

John licked his lips and cleared his throat. It was probably best that Dean didn't remember the heated curses that were exchanged. It made John wonder, if they ever found the others, how they would sort it all out. Eventually, John said, "…We were attacked."

* * *

"_Put your weapons down!" The Doctor said, a voice rushed with alarm. He placed a hand on John's gun to lower it. John wasn't even aware he'd taken it out. The Doctor tried to get up. His jaw was set with determination. "You can't fight them. They're invisible!"_

_Sam glanced up from his brother, who lay unconscious on the ground. His face was filled with rage and confusion. _"_What the hell are they?"_

"_The Visian."_

* * *

Dean frowned, "Visian? What the fuck is that?"

John shrugged as he washed dried blood off his hands in the river. He had a large cut on his right arm and an unhealthy looking bruise on his cheek. Dean chose not to point out the irony in that. "I've got no idea." John was saying, "I thought you would know, but I guessing aliens aren't exactly your forte."

"Not exactly, no. The closest thing to aliens I got to was abduction by fairies." John was staring at him. "Never mind." Dean scrubbed his face with his hand and groaned. "What happened after I went under?"

He hesitated. "…I got you out but…I didn't see what happened to the others."

So then what happened to Sammy? Dean swore quietly, "Damn it, if I hadn't gotten knocked out…"

"You can't blame yourself!"

"Who else is there to blame?"

John paused, and then said, "We should get moving, but we need to stay close to the river so I can carry on your treatment."

John helped Dean up and, after swirling on the spot for a minute, the two of them set off down the riverbank. Mushrooms, rotting leaves, and maggots crunched under the weight of their boots. At one point, John stepped in saturated mud and it spilled over the side of his shoe and soaked into his sock - but he barely noticed. He'd been through far worse in the war. A bird began to call across the forests and the repetitive sound was like a chisel to Dean's head, and he covered his ears.

A few hours into their journey, they stopped so John could re-apply the cold shirt to Dean's swollen head. John searched the brambles for something to eat, but he didn't trust the berries growing on the bushes of an alien planet, so gave up and they both drank the water instead. The Doctor had told them it was safe to drink and now he was gone, they found themselves trusting his advice. John found himself wishing that he was there with them to help them, but there was no point moping about it. With empty bellies, the two of them continued through the jungle.

Eventually, the river gave way to a mass of trees and shrubbery, which in turn gave way to a large, misty swamp. This was one of many misty spots on Kembel, since it had a very unique environment for such a small planet - the planet it's self was only just larger than Earth's moon.

John stopped abruptly, "Did you see that?"

Dean frowned. "See what?"

"It looked like a man. I'll take a look." John stepped down from the embankment and walked towards the swamp. Dean watched him, as the mist swirled up over the water and swallowed him, and was suddenly reminded of the last time they were here:

* * *

_Sam had yellow eyes. Dean was staring hard and, yes, he was pretty sure they were yellow. Bright orangey-yellow, like that son of a bitch demon who tried to hurt his Sammy. He didn't know what to do. His father's words rattled about in the mist. "Save Sam, Dean. If you don't, you'll have to kill him."_

_"Stop it! Don't move!" Castiel's voice echoed around him, coming out from the fog, "Sam, stop moving now! Sherlock, you as well. Dean, put your gun down."_

_Dean looked over at the yellow-eyed Sam, feeling sick, but he obeyed Castiel. "Cas!" he called, "Where the hell are you, man?"_

_"I'm right beside you."_

_Dean looked to his left and his right, but all he could see were faceless yellow eyes glaring at him out of the mist. In the distance, he could hear the yellow-eyed demon chuckling to himself. Dean pulled out his gun again, aiming at one of the pair of eyes._

_"Dean, stop!" Castiel ordered, his voice raising in alarm, "You're pointing you're gun at John!"_

_Dean froze, his hand shaking. "I'm...what?"_

_"You're hallucinating." Castiel explained, "All of you are. Whatever you're seeing isn't there. _It's from the mist when you breathed it in."__

* * *

"Oh, crap!" Dean swore and quickly pulled his shirt off and tied it around his nose and mouth. "John!" he tried to say but with his shirt muffling his words, it sounded like _"Jaaph!" _Meanwhile, John was wandering deeper and deeper into the Misty Swamp until Dean could no longer see him. Dean rushed to help him, calling his name, even though there was no way the other man could hear him with the cloth in front of his mouth.

"Dean, I swear I saw..." John stopped and stared deep into the swirling strings of grey light, his blood running cold. "What are you doing here?"

Dean caught up to him. He dragged John away from the swamp by the arm, scrambling through the mist. He could barely see! It was just grey - and then something swooped towards him. Dean ducked underneath it and was slapped by the leaves. He grunted, shoving them away with one hand while he dragged John along behind him with another. He had no idea where he was going. He just had to get him and John out of this mist! Suddenly, something like a giant dragonfly with yellow eyes shrieked and clawed at him. Dean couldn't tell whether he was hallucinating or not, but when the creature scratched his face, the pain felt real enough. He let go of John to fight if off, pulling out his gun and shooting. The bullet passed through the mist and a loud crack filled the air, but the creature had gone. And so had John.

Dean looked round, but all he could see in the grey light were distorted shapes that looked nothing like a human. "John!" he called. Which way had come from? Dean picked a direction and ran. "John!"

Dean charged through the mist as quickly as he could that he didn't have time to stop when he saw the large figure bolting towards him and ran straight into it with enough force that he was sent flying back. He quickly regained his balance however, stopping himself from falling, and looked to see that he ran straight into John. Both relieved and worried, Dean took a hazy step towards him.

John pulled out his Browning L9A1 and pointed it at Dean.

Dean threw up his hands. "Whoa! John, it's me! Dean." he cried and when John was unmoved, Dean shook his head in disbelief. "It's the mist, John! You're hallucinating!"

John looked confused. He glanced at his gun, and then back at Dean.

"I don't know what you're seeing..." Dean stopped because, of course, the mist! John could be hearing anything. He probably sounded like he was speaking another language. Instead, Dean kept his arms raised and took an inch towards John.

John jabbed his gun forwards and Dean froze, raising his hands higher. John watched him cautiously. Dean tried again, moving another tiny inch. This time, John only shifted on his feet and cleared his throat.

"Just trust me, okay?" Dean tried to say as he inched another bit towards him. With one swoop, he punched the gun out of John's hand and grabbed his arm, dragging him back the way they came. John struggled against him, swinging a punch towards him. Dean blocked it. "Dude, I'm trying to help!"

Despite John's fighting, Dean kept a firm hold and dragged him through the grey light. The mist eventually faded into greenery and Dean fought hard against the plants and insects swooping at him to get away. His head was swimming, and the edges of his sight were beginning to darken. He had to stop. No other choice. Dean skidded in the mud, tripping over a branch and falling into the dirt. John spun around behind him, confused and dazed.

Dean stood up and roughly shook the other man. "John! Snap out of it!"

John flinched and Dean saw his eyes clear up. He looked like he'd woken up from a nightmare. After a pause, John let out a sigh of relief, "Jesus Christ..."

"I'm flattered." Dean breathed.

John stared at him for a minute, trying to figure out if he was real or not, and let out a breathy laugh. Dean laughed along with him for a minute, patting him on the shoulder, until the leaves shook around them. Both men went rigid, scanning the jungle around them.

"We can't stay here." whispered John.

Dean nodded and they ran.

The trembling leaves chased after them.

Dean swore. His head was spiralling, his eyes barely open. Something behind them screamed. He could hear pounding footsteps behind them, dangerously close. There was no point looking back. He had to rely on his other senses.

Suddenly, John grabbed Dean and pulled him down, just as something swooped over his head. Dean tripped, scrambling in the dirt, but John yanked him up. John risked a look back. He instantly regretted it. In the next moment, there was blood in his eyes and mouth. He choked. Blind. Floundering. He reached out and was met with cold skin and hair. Gasping, John reeled back, his back hitting a tree and falling to the ground. He wiped furiously at his eyes and saw green. He heard a gun go off. John jumped to his feet, scrubbing his face as he tried to escape blindness.

"John!"

"Dean!" He called back, looking around, blinking. He spotted a figure wrestling in the mud and charged towards it.

Dean punched and kicked against the weight pressing him down. "Get off me you son of a bitch!" he tried to reach for his gun, barely an arm's length away, when something sharp stabbed into his wrist. He cried out as bones cracked. With his other arm, he swung up and came into connect with something. He punched hard. He think he did more damage to himself than he did the Visian.

John charged forwards with a branch and hurled it at the space above Dean. It shattered. For a second, the attacker came into view. Claws. Human-like features. At least eight foot. It disappeared straight after, but it was enough for John. He grabbed Dean's gun and fired. There was a rattling cry, and Dean writhed in pain. There was pounding.

Silence.

Dean clenched his teeth. "Ugh…"

"Dean!" John rushed forwards, checking his wounds. "Talk to me."

Dean groaned, his eyes slipping close. His head was thundering. His muscles aching. He felt John's hands on his face, his eyes, but he couldn't see him.

John looked around, not daring to leave his patient's side. In his head, he tried to arrange his thoughts: Water. Shelter. Rest. In the panic, they lost sight of the river. Water was out. Not good. Not good. John inhaled sharply and his bruised lungs hissed. He gritted his teeth against them, forcing himself to breathe evenly. He listened for their attacker, but could only hear insects and birds - or at least, what sounded like insects and birds. He couldn't be sure.

Scrubbing his face again, John slowly stood on trembling legs. He looked up, seeing the valley rise up in the distance. He squinted. Was that...? His heart jumped in his chest. "Dean." he said, bending down to gently shake the man, "You have to stay awake."

Dean mumbled.

"There's a cave!" John shook him again, and Dean slowly eased his eyes open. He got up to his feet and pulled Dean up with him, making the other man lean his weight on him. "It's not far." he reassured himself and Dean. Truth be told, he didn't even know how far it was. He didn't even know it was a cave.

Light began to fail them. As the sun sank into the ground, the air grew colder and colder. John clenched his teeth and focused on the cave at the top of the valley. It was their only hope now. No water. No food. One concussion. Possible broken ribs. Large cut. Risk of infection. Several bruises. Now, the cold and the dark came to attack them. John was exasperated with it all.

Dean was dragging behind, his eyes barely open. John pushed down his own complaints and focused on him. He looked over his shoulder to check if he was still awake. Dean could die like this. John couldn't allow that.

"Hey." he said gently, and Dean's eyes fluttered, "Hold on for me."

Talk. He had to remind himself, against his own fatigue. The chill was coaxing him into oblivion. His arms were growing numb from the weight on his back. Talk. He reminded himself again. "Tell me more about yourself, Dean."

"Du-e. Time an-nd place."

John's throat was dry. "I have a wife." he said, "She's called Mary. What about you?"

Dean was quiet. John's stomach turned over. "Dean?" John looked back over his shoulder, but Dean was still awake.

"Just go'h Sammy."

"Parents?" then he remembered what Sherlock said, "No, you don't. No home, either." he was grappling at straws now, "Do you have a car?"

"Mmm-hmm. She my baby." Dean murmured, "M' so tired."

John tensed. "No. Dean! You have to stay awake, you hear me?" he looked ahead of them. They were halfway up the valley, but it was almost pitch black now. John could see his breath in front of him. His legs were creaking like branches. John groaned. "Dean. I need you to help me to help yourself."

"...uh?"

"I need you to pull your own weight. Just for a little while. Until we get to the top, I mean. Can you do that?"

"Mmm."

John couldn't tell whether that was a yes or a no, but he felt the weight on him lessen a bit. "Okay. Good. Now, walk." They moved along into a city of rocks. The stones were smooth and wet from an earlier, rainfall and John's boots squeaked when he slipped. Dean grunted, helping John regain his balance and the two of them continued moving together. Up above, there was was a rumble. A storm was coming. Still, it was almost comforting – at least they heard something familiar in this strange place. After a while it began to rain; light gentle drops that only lasted for a minute or so. Each drop clicked as it splattered from the very high leaves and tumbled, bouncing and sliding along, to the very bottom of the forest floor.

At the top of the valley, John almost collapsed.

There was no cave. Just a bundle of rocks stacked up to look like one.

"We 'ere?" Dean mumbled, his legs weakening, his weight pressing John down. John hear him sliding from his back.

"Dean!" John tried to keep him up right, but Dean was finally overcome by fatigue. He lowered him as gently as he could to the ground. "Dean! Don't do this! Don't you dare leave me alone!"

Rain began to fall. Ice sharp drops that felt like acid. Maybe it was acid.

Panic gripped John's throat. He shielded his eyes and the rain burnt his skin. He tried to protect Dean - but how could he? "Dean! Wake up!" John tried to clear a dry throat. "What was his name? Cas! Castiel!" his voice was wheezing. The rain was turning his skin pink and wrinkly. He cleared his throat again. "Castiel!"

There was no answer.

John groaned as the pink spots on his skin began to fester and bleed. John stared. He must going insane. It was raining diseases! He shook himself. Focus! He looked round desperately. He had to do something, or else he and Dean were doomed. John looked over the forest, trying to think...The forest. It wasn't effected by the rain! But there no way John could carry Dean back again, and no way of waking him up. Think! Where was Sherlock when he needed him?

Leaves. That was it!

John plunged into the jungle. He scrambled, flailing about like a madman. He stopped at the first plants he found and grabbed handfuls of leaves. He held them over his head as he charged back out into the rain. He placed them over Dean's face, which was swelling up and purple. He prayed that Dean would recover, and ran back into the trees for more. He found the largest he could and held them like umbrellas. When he collected enough, he and Dean were in a cocoon of leaves, protected from the outside rain. John sagged onto the ground, barely holding the leaves up. He prayed they stayed were they were. John looked over at Dean, at the purple boils and blood covering his face, and was amazed to find that, as Dean dried off, the boils shrank and eventually disappeared. John sighed with relief and rest his head back onto the ground. He told himself he was going to stay awake. He was going to keep them safe until the rain stopped. He was going to - but he feel asleep before he could finish that final thought.

Not far from where they rested, the river drifted inwards into a small inlet which stood below a craggy cliff-face, leaving behind a mangled trench coat in its passing.

* * *

**A.N: **Well, this chapter is definitely a lot different to how I expected it to be. I uploaded this to the Doc Manager a few days ago expecting to post it up shortly afterwards. I came to edit it and sort of went 'I don't like that' and deleted half of it. CURSE MY INSECURITY! DAHHH! ...Sorry about that. Ahem. The only thing that stopped me from deleting the whole thing was a mistake I made when I was 11. I spent a whole year writing a novel and I finished it just before Christmas. I decided to edit it during the holiday. When the holiday came round, I opened up the document, read the first line, and said 'I don't like that' and deleted the whole thing. ALL 332 PAGES! Ugh. Well, now I have a novel-phobia, and my advice to anyone whose thinking of doing the same thing: DON'T. Everything can be improved upon, and I realised that not three months later when I woke up one morning and thought 'actually it wasn't that bad'. Well, it was bad, don't get me wrong, but it wasn't worth wiping from existence! So, I've been regretting it ever since. Now every time I try to write a story, I'm cringing, and I back up my computer every week or so for fear that I might get the same urge again. Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that you should keep any piece of writing, even if it stinks so badly it puts landfills to shame, because whatever you wrote back then will either help you with a great story idea in the future, or give you an idea of what does and does not work and why.

**About Kembel – **Kembel was a planet featured in the 12-parter episode 'The Dalek's Master Plan' featuring the First Doctor. Unfortunately, the episodes are lost and will probably never be viewed ever again but you can find the whole story on the tardiswiki. Most of the description of the planet I made up because there isn't a lot of solid information about this planet. As for the monsters, the Visian, they are an actual Doctor Who monster, but the Visian don't actually live on Kembel, but I included them in this chapter as part of the conflict. (There's a reason for this which will be explained in the next chapter.)

Until then, thanks for reading. Over and out.


	8. Implementation

**Disclaimer: **My story, not my characters

**A.N: **I've not been feeling very good so that's why there hasn't been an update for ages, (Exam season is soon also so that will delay my writing) but I managed to post this up for you lovely readers.

* * *

**Eight**

Implementation

"_What a waste… What a terrible waste."_

The noise of the jungle broke through the dam, washing the voice back into the realm of memories. The Doctor sat up, groaning, punching and kicking the air, as if his dream was a physical presence that tormented him during the night.

"Steven?" he called before he could stop himself. The name was foreign on his tongue; not to his mind. Part of him, disorientated from fatigue, had momentarily confused his previous time on Kembel with the present. It was only a moment before he realised that, however, and the string of names he was going to say afterwards caught on his tongue. _No._ he told himself. _No Steven. No Sara, no Bret, no Katarina either_. He shook his head and sighed, "Silly. Silly old Doctor."

The cave he was in was familiar, in the way that frittering of an anxious heart is familiar. The Doctor, Sam and Sherlock had resided here for the last two days. Behind him, crystallised rocks stretched the full length of the cave, barring a straight path, so that one would have to twist and turn to get through to the back of the cave, where their efforts where rewarded by a blank sheet of rock and no escape. The cave smelt damp, a wet musk that clogged his nostrils.

It made the Doctor uneasy - much like when a person remembers something, only to later doubt that it ever happened. Kembel was somehow different to how he remembered. He was certain his memory was not false, but the place he was in now begged to differ. Kembel didn't have hallucinogenic mist, he was sure of it, and yet here it was. Kembel wasn't populated by the Visians either, though they were here now. What had changed?

The Doctor shook his head again.

Beside the Doctor, Sherlock lay. He was on his back, one leg bent and the other straight, the latter of which was ripped apart, held together with scraps of cloth. The man's eyes were closed, his breathing calculated, his long fingers clenched so tightly the chuckles where white. He'd been this way for the previous two days, since they were separated from John, Castiel, and Dean.

After the attack on the mountain, they were forced to flee, much to their disgust, and soon after, they stumbled upon this cave. It was perfect for hiding. The cave was chiselled into the base of a craggy slope, covered in green, and would hide them from all eyes if they were quiet enough. The mouth of the cave was thin and low, and the men had to crawl to get inside, but the inside opened up into a vast chasm and went deep into the hillside. At the very back of the cave, a good ten minute walk, there was a pool of water that had spilled through the earth - the poison of the apple. They avoided that area completely and stayed by the cave's mouth. Not being able to clean their wounds, they went straight to sleep, each of them taking it in turns to keep watch.

Currently, it was Sam's turn. He wasn't there.

Frowning, the Doctor inched his way - the sound of fabric scraping against rock made him freeze for a moment - towards the cave mouth. He bent down onto his hands and knees, neck straining, to see what was outside. Beyond the grass and bracken, he could see the trees frozen against the night. After a pause, half expecting a monster to leap out, he inhaled deeply and dove under. His back hissed against the stone. His legs flailed behind him.

He remembered this from last time. The cave mouth was such an awkward shape, you couldn't just crawl through on your hands and knees. There was a lump halfway through and the Doctor twisted onto his side to try and evade it. He winced as the stone dug into a bruise on his hip. He ignored this and kept moving until finally he broke out into the jungle.

Standing slowly, the Doctor brushed off his clothes and straightened his bow-tie; all the while looking around with a cautious eye. The jungle was loud with bird cries and insects chirping - the occasion rustle as the wind picked up. The Doctor found Sam just outside the cave, sat on a rock, looking up at a split in the treetops where the sky burst through.

"Sam?" The Doctor called, "Are you all right?"

Sam jumped a little. The Doctor's voice was a sudden new sound, and it startled him. He said quickly, "Yeah. Fine." his voice was a little croaky, "Why wouldn't I be?"

The Doctor pushed his hair from his face, his fingernails scraping over the dried blood on his scalp, and jumped down into the undergrowth to sit beside Sam. There was a horrid gash on the human's face that travelled down to his neck, and bruising on his left temple. The Doctor knew the Visian, and he knew they were lucky to have escaped at all.

Sam shuffled up to give the Doctor room on the rock , but refused to look at him. He continued to watch the sky as if he was praying for a miracle to come down from the heavens. The Doctor looked over at him, lips pursed in thought - Maybe Sam was just looking for the way home. Something about that made the Doctor smile a little, and he smiled when he said, "From here, if you turn right a bit..." he licked his finger and held it up. Sam blinked at him in confusion. "Yeah, that's about right. If you walk that way for about - _ooh -_ 24, 000 light years, you'll reach Earth. Then if you go that way..." The Doctor pointed into the jungle, "Um...left a bit, for about half the distance, you'll reach another planet called Mira. See? We're still in the Milky Way."

It took Sam a while before he realised that the Doctor was trying to cheer him up. He looked over at him. "You...You think I'm home sick?" It came out a little more accusing than Sam intended.

The Doctor's mouth opened, and then clamped shut again. After a pause, he asked, "Aren't you? I mean, that sometimes happens and I just thought..."

"Look, I just want to find my brother, okay!" Sam snapped, cutting him off.

The Doctor watched him, his eyes boring down into Sam's, lips pressed tightly together. Suddenly, the Doctor reached into his pocket and pulled out something. It was long and silver, fitting snugly into his palm, and had a green light at the tip. "Give me your phone, Sam."

Sam scowled, "Why?"

"Just gimme!"

Sam gave him a flat look, rolling his neck like one would grind a foam ball, before he pulled out a random phone from his pocket. He had two phones in his jacket, and one in his trouser pocket - and plenty more either in the Impala or in his bags, back at Baker Street. Having more than one phone each had gotten the Winchesters out of many tough situations, but the phones mostly steer the authorities off their scent. As Sam placed one of the phones in the Doctor's outstretched palm, he was reminded of the time he and Dean had to hide away from the whole world, and had to replace every one of their phones and credit cards. Sam suddenly realised, that same feeling of unease - eyes darting everywhere; hoping you weren't seen - had haunted him for the last two days.

The youngest Winchester watched as the Doctor pulled the back off his phone. He started. "What the hell are you doing?"

The Doctor didn't reply. He held the strange silver device in his fist and shone it's green light over Sam's phone. The light buzzed softly. After a moment, the Doctor slipped the back onto the phone again and handed it back to Sam.

Sam blinked, licking his dry lips. "Okay...what was that all about?"

"Try it."

"...what?"

The Doctor nodded at the phone.

Sam glanced at the phone, back at the Doctor, and then at the phone again. He noticed the signal bars were completely full. His eyes widened, as a surge of hope went through him. "You're kidding!"

The Doctor laughed as he threw the green light up into the air and caught it again. "Sonic upgrade!" he declared, "That phone can now ring anywhere in the universe, from any time period. Go on and try it, already!"

Sam had Dean on speed dial. He pressed the call button, and almost had a heart attack when it began to ring. "Oh my God!" he fumbled to press the phone to his ear. Hearing each shrill call echoing down his ear was agony. The rings kept going and going, until the voice mail activated with a click. Sam was not deterred. He tried another one of Dean's phone. When the phone went to voice mail, Sam tried again. And again.

"Come on, Dean. Pick up the phone, for _once_!" Sam sighed, clenching his fist around the phone. Normally, he'd just use the phones GPS - but how could he on another planet?

There was a click. Sam held his breath.

_"This is Dean's other, other cell, so you must know what to do."_

That was every phone Dean had. It took Sam every fibre of his self-control to stop himself from screaming and throwing the phone against a tree.

"It was worth a shot." the Doctor said, not doing well to hide the disappointment and shame in his voice.

Sam stared at him for a moment and then at the phone. He felt a stone in his stomach when that tiny glimmer of hope was snatched away so abruptly. But now, in an attempt to straighten out his thoughts, he found he was at least little grateful at the thought behind the gesture. He pocketed the phone and nodded at the Doctor, "Thank you."

The Doctor smiled, just as a shadow passed over his face, and the two of them glanced back to see Sherlock stepping out from the cave. The detective looked out at the jungle before looking at the Doctor and Sam.

"Evening." he said blandly. His right leg was stiff, and he walked with a limp. During the attack, the Visian had torn up his leg with what could only have been knifes, seeing the deep crimson gashes! Sam had patched it up best he could with torn fabric from his shirt, while listening to Sherlock muttering 'You're doing it wrong. John doesn't do that.' all throughout the process.

Seeing Sherlock walk like that, Sam asked, not without sympathy, "How's your leg, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at him like he didn't know what he was talking about, and then said suddenly, "Oh! Yes. Fine." He wobbled as he said it. His knee was buckling under his weight. "You know, this looks like a nice place to sit. I think I'll...sit." He eased himself down onto the ground. His face crumpled in pain. "God, I miss morphine..." he groaned quietly, "Even John would give me morphine now. Do either of you have any cigarettes? No. No. You don't. I can tell. Although, you have look of someone who was once a junkie."

Sam scowled at this comment, then groaned quietly, pressing his fingers to his temple as a dull ache started growing there. "So, what now?" he asked. "I mean, we can't just sit here forever."

"Well, we can't just wander out into jungle either." Sherlock said, and his leg started bleeding again as if to emphasize his point. Sherlock ripped off the damp, hot, rags and cast them aside. He pulled off his scarf and wrapped it around the wound instead and then - _zip _\- he did not flinch as he tightened the knot.

"Sherlock is right." The Doctor urged, "We can't go back out there - at least you two can't."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him and Sam just stared.

"Seriously?" Sam said, "Go on your own? How are you supposed to find anyone by yourself? And what about the Visian? We'd have a better chance if we went together."

Sherlock pursed his lips. His eyes rolled up in thought. And then: "No, we wouldn't."

"Okay, so what then?" Sam glowered, "We're never going to find anyone if we just sit here waiting it out."

"We won't be sitting here for very long." Sherlock interjected, "We haven't ate or drank for two and a half days. We'll die before we're healed. If we drink, we'll hallucinate." he paused, blinked his dry eyes, and continued, "Moving will only make our situation worse. We have to conserve our energy. Every action we take has to be worthwhile."

"So wait..." Sam breathed. "We can't _leave _and we can't _stay _so what the hell do we do?"

The Doctor was shaking his head. His hand snapped upwards so suddenly that Sam and Sherlock flinched. "Okay, stop it, both of you!" He cried angrily. "I've met some real pessimists before, but you two are the worst! 'What the hell do we do' Sam? Well, to start off with, stop thinking about what we _can't_ do, and start thinking about what we _can_ do! We're not helpless! Just because we can't go anywhere, that doesn't mean we can't do any_thing_. We can still help our friends from here. Or, in other words, if we can't go to them, then we draw _them _to us! All we need is a signal to lead them here. A big signal."

"This is a bad idea."

"No flies on the detective..." The Doctor sighed.

"What's wrong with with it? It sounds good to me."

Sherlock fixed Sam with a stern look. "Have you forgotten that we're not alone on this planet? A signal won't just draw John and others here - if it draws them here at all - it will draw the Visians to us."

Sam held up his hands. "Okay, before we start yelling at each other again, let me get this straight. Our options are either wait here and die, go out there and die, or wait here, trying to get the others to come to us, and possibly die while doing it."

"In a nutshell."

Sam huffed, "Okay, I'm all for the third option. Anyone else?"

The Doctor hummed in agreement. "Me too."

Sherlock didn't look convinced. "And there are no better options..."

"Sherlock, there isn't always a right answer." The Doctor said with sympathy, "This isn't a puzzle. Any answer will do."

Sherlock sighed, "Okay, fine. But, I recommend a small fire for our signal."

"Okay. Build a fire. Let's do it."

* * *

Haley didn't like Kembel. It was a stinking, squelching place in which, if she were alive, she'd borrow the phrase 'wouldn't be seen dead in.' But she was dragged here by an unbreakable force. Haley loathed being dragged about the place, and often found she empathised with whatever unfortunate animal was skinned to make the carpets to be 'walked all over.'

After Dean and John collapsed, she stood jittering beside them, unsure of what else to do - until she remembered why she was there in the first place and filled with so much anger that the force that was keeping her cemented within walking distance of Dean loosened it's grip and she was able to take a rather feverish march into the jungle to her clear her thoughts.

She hadn't gotten too far when she spotted it: A spiralling cloud of black rising above the trees. It looked like it was coming from somewhere over the hillside.

It must have been at least one of Dean's friends - but what could she do? She couldn't wake up Dean or John; they where too injured and too exhausted - being alive was awfully hard work, wasn't it? - and she didn't know if she could manifest long enough to explain to whoever that Dean and John were hurt and need help quick!

Haley bristled with annoyance and went to kick a stone - surprised when it bounced away from her. She tried again with another rock, but it didn't work. She couldn't stabilise. She wondered if it had something to do with her mood: Death had once explained to her how spirits manifest in the living realm through either complete calm, or burning-hot anger, the latter of which being extremely dangerous and could increase her risk of becoming vengeful.

_Vengeful. _Haley's fingers twitched. Nothing more than a monster.

Lacing her fingers in the waistband of her dress, Haley continued her wander through the jungle. The green and browns clashed together like splurges of paint that made Haley's head spin. Although - Haley squinted - there was a small rupture, barely visible, in the pattern. There was a clump of green that pulled together in a triangular shape, whereas the rest of the jungle grew in twisted spirals and random spurts. She couldn't help but feel disturbed by it, so she dashed through the undergrowth to get a closer look.

It appeared to be a den of some kind, a small tent made from leaves and branches strung sloppily together. She looked inside, expecting a beast. But no. A man was there. He was sleeping on a bed of leaves, his coat pulled tightly around him, his eyes twitching under his eye lids from haunted dreams. Haley stepped back in surprise.

Suddenly, she thought about Dean and John, unconscious in the jungle, and somewhere not too far away a fire burning from someone lost and - that was it!

Haley crept back into the den. "Wake up!" she told the man sternly. The man stirred uncomfortably but didn't wake.

As Haley drew closer, a puff of white air escaped the man's parted lips. Her ghostly presence dropped the temperature until the man was shuddering. At last his eyes opened and he sat up, rubbing his arms and looking very confused. He turned towards Haley, but looked through her rather than at her. Haley scowled. She was invisible to this man - at least at the moment. She hadn't predicted how difficult it was to simply appear in the realm of the living, with the lack of a flesh-bound to anchor her there. She simply wasn't calm enough, nor angry enough, at the moment.

The man yawned and shuddered as the cold air hit him. He didn't seem to be planning to leave the den, and instead curled himself up tighter.

Haley pressed her lips together. "I'm sorry I make you cold." she said even though the man couldn't hear. Death had always been polite even when he was being rude. It was an art that Haley hadn't quite perfected. "But, I need you wake up now. Please."

Haley looked over her shoulder at a nearby shrub and focused intently on it. The shrub shook. The man jumped. He was on his feet in the next instant.

Smiling triumphantly, Haley followed the man outside. Oh, but he hadn't spotted the smoke! And he was looking the wrong way... Haley rolled her eyes and looked over at another bundle of bushes, glaring at them, until they started shaking.

The man spun round at the sound. Then he looked up and saw the smoke. The emotions on his face were so quick that Haley could barely categorise them. His brow furrowed and then rose, his eyes narrowed and then widened - then he laughed! Then he was running. Haley watched his coat flap around his kneels as he charged towards the smoke, stumbling over rocks in his excitement, and then she turned away to find where Dean and John had gone.

* * *

"I said a _small fire!_"

It was an accident. Really, it was. One too many branches, or one too many leaves, and the beast had overgrown, far out of their control. Sam backed away from the flames, almost tripping over a log. The fire was roaring. Orange flames scratched away at a navy blue sky, competing against the sun's early light. Sam looked up. Smoke spewing. Thick. Black. Smoke.

Sam took another step away from the fire, breathing heavily. He was suddenly aware of other consequences to what they were doing. It was as evident as the weight on his chest, as his shirt clung to him. His heart turned over as beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. Although, seeing that smoke, and with it the prospect of seeing his brother again, he hardly cared.

He told himself it was worth the risk - that, in doing nothing, he was betraying Dean - and it was almost enough to sugar-coat the bitter taste in his mouth. Should he lay the flames to waste? Drag away the branches and beat them down to ashes before the nightmare became worse? He supposed he should have; the heat was drilling into his skull. But what of Dean, then? Somehow, if Sam destroyed the only chance of finding him, would Dean feel it, and turn a vengeful face because his brother had, once again, let him down?

Over on the other side of the flames, Sherlock was glaring at him. "You're going to get us killed!"

Sam suddenly felt very dizzy. He took another step back.

To his right, there was the Doctor. His face was dark and the orange light danced demons across it. He seemed to sense that Sam was looking at him, because he turned away from the flames and met his stare. Sam's head began to ache against the heat. He took another step back, but every step made his head swim. His knees buckled.

Idiot! Why hadn't he been more careful when feeding the fire? The Doctor told him to be careful, but Sam had reassured him that it would be fine.

The fire was a thief. It's drumming heat crept invisibly on curls of smoke. It stole water from their bodies. The fire cackled at them. All three of them; dizzy, dry eyed, and coated in sweat.

The Doctor swallowed. His throat tasted like ash. The smoke had surrounded them in a meaty darkness. The Doctor's hearts were beating so quickly, they were almost synchronised. With each contraction, his hearts filled trepidation, until they were bursting, then the Doctor could feel that burning set his veins alight. He exhaled slowly, pressing his palm against a tree - that's when he felt it.

It was gentle at first, barely noticeable. It thrummed through his fingers; the tree shook with it. But then it became stronger, and the ground began to tremble. _Thump-thud. Thump-thud. Thump-thud._ It was audible now!

Oh, but he knew exactly what it was.

Sherlock had already pulled out two burning branches from the flames and passed one to the Doctor and the other to Sam. "Use these! You'll stand a better chance."

The Doctor clasped the branch. It was light, but powerful, in his grip. When he swung it, the fire sliced through the smoke. "Good call. Now, listen to me, both of you. The Visians are eight feet tall, so if you want to hit something, aim high. We won't be able to kill them, but we can fight them off."

Silently, they moved apart. Smoke shrouded their physical forms - but the orange light, hanging in the black, reminded them they were together. The Doctor looked at Sherlock's light, and then at Sam's, on either side of him. The lights trembled. The ground jumped.

They were close now.

_Thump-thud. Thump-thud. Thump-thud. _Blasting through the air! Each beat brought them back to the inception of nightmares; that time when bleary eyes peeked from clinging bed sheets and swore, without a doubt, that something was there watching them.

The beats fell silent.

The smoke moved - like someone punching a curtain. Leaves hissed under heavy feet. In the shroud, the lights hadn't moved - but there! A scuttle. Shattering the silence. The fire inhaled sharply through it's teeth. It stood licking it's lips in anticipation.

Inhaling slowly, the Doctor closed his eyes. Held his breath. Pushed back his anxieties until his mind was clear - until he could feel the spin of the planet. Kembel.

First formed over 10 billion years ago. Kembel was a quarter the size of Earth and span twice as fast - they were clinging to the skin of this world. Falling through the air. The Doctor concentrated everything on that movement: the fine brush against his skin. The rumbling of the planet's core under his feet. They are some real cowboys down there! The ground itself felt as though it was about to crack any moment. The Doctor ground his feet into the soil. The vibrations echoed deep down and bounced back again - there was a shift to his right, and the Doctor's eyes shot open.

He swung right, and smacked something hard.

An explosion of snarls shattered the quiet.

A jolt shuddered through the Doctor's bones. He tumbled to the ground. The fire reached for him. He cried out and rolled away, when something cut through his shirt. The Doctor pulled the branch over his head and smashed it above his head. Biting embers and angry splinters diced into his skin. He flailed his arms. Rolled onto his stomach. Crawled away, hands digging at the soil. He heard the beast follow. He felt it's claws against the soil.

The Doctor yanked another burning branch from the fire. He jumped to his feet, waving the branch blindly in all directions, but hit nothing. Where was it? His thoughts stuttered. Why was it suddenly so quiet? Where were the Visians? Where were the snarls? The Doctor spun round, still swinging, but hitting nothing! He squinted against the firelight. Panting. He sucked in another breath, gagging on the smoke.

Then he was punched in the shoulder. Body flung forwards, smacking hard against something.

No. Someone.

Sam cried out in shock swung round to defend himself from his attacker. He only realised it was the Doctor, seconds before he burnt him. Sam gasped - his throat filled with smoke. He doubled over, coughing. His eyes were streaming. He stumbled. Twisted. Where was the Doctor? Was he okay? Sam scrambled to his feet. Picked up his branch. Glancing round through all corners of his eye.

Then screamed as a blow exploded across his face. His bones rattled against the hard ground.

"Sam!" someone cried.

Blood. Blood in his eyes. Sam swung the branch left and right. Blood was in his mouth now. Or was it smoke? The two were so thick and strangling that it made no difference; Sam choked and stumbled. He could hear Sherlock's grunts as he fought, followed by the hiss of a Visian. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Then a voice calling his name. "Sam!"

The Doctor!

The blood cleared away but it was still so very dark. Sam coughed soot. He could only faintly see the Doctor's face in the smoke. Then he was gone again. He had been shoved aside. Sam sucked in a startled gasp and then started choking again. He dropped and crawled, desperate for air.

In front of him, the flames were roaring! The monster towered above them, spewing red, black and white. Sam reached for the fire, the heat sucking strength from his limbs. He grabbed a new burning branch, took a deep breath, and stood.

_Aim high._

Sam swung and stumbled. His vision blurred. He heard a hiss - and took a chance.

Sam swung his branch - and hit something! The Visian snarled. His arm was scratched. Three bloody slashes. Sam yelled in pain, dropping the burning branch once again. His arms flew up just in time to stop the Visian from killing him! Sam could feel the creature's bony arms in his fists as he fought against it. He could hear it's long claws clicking together. He could smell the putrid meaty breath, mixed with the choking smoke.

The Visian wrestled against him, pushing him nearer the flames. Sam ducked down and dived to the side, hoping gravity would save him. The Visian's weight was used against it, and Sam managed to twist away from the flames. He hit the ground. He felt that hard fragile flesh leave his hands before he heard the terrible screeching. Sam yelled with terror, as the flames bit him, but something grabbed his collar and yanked him out of the fire. The Visian continued to scream, and the fire surrounded the humanoid shape, chewing away the flesh until the screams finally ended.

Sherlock pulled Sam away from the flames and helped him pat them out. "We have to put out the fire!" he shouted against the rising panic.

Sam nodded. "In the cave!" he said but he didn't get time to finish the sentence before his voice broke into a fit of raged coughs.

_In the cave._ What was he talking about? Sherlock pulled his hands through his hair. Then he realised: There was water at the back of cave!

There was a scuffle nearby.

Sam looked at him, pulled out a knife, and gave an instinctual shove in the opposite direction to the sound. Sherlock's heart was in his throat. No logical thoughts came to his mind now - not when he was blind to the enemy. He had no idea how to fight when he couldn't see a weakness!

He tried not the panic. Panicking was stupid. If he had tripped, dropped the branch, and scrambled backwards through the dirt, until his fingernails dug into the bark of a tree against his back, it would definitely be something to delete from his memory. Sherlock pressed himself against the tree. Eyes darting all around. All he could see was smoke. His eyes burned with the heat. He shook himself, forcing himself to focus.

Was that movement? Instinct sent Sherlock to the ground. He heard the bark splinter and rolled away. When he looked up, he saw the incision in the bark. His hand went into his coat. Shaky hands groping - but there was nothing. Sherlock's heart stopped. No gun. He always took John's.

He had seconds. What was the best course of action?

Use their strength against them. Become invisible.

Sherlock ran and disappeared into the smoke. Pain shot up his leg. He held his breath. Gritted his teeth. He stopped running barely before he started. The pain was just too terrible! He whirled round and watched the smoke. Any quick and sudden movements would push against the smoke and then he could see if a Visian was nearby. The only problem was it worked both ways. Sherlock would have to be slow and careful or else he'll reveal his whereabouts.

It was quiet - but not too far away he heard the fire crackling. How far had the smoke and flames spread? It needed to be stopped before it killed them. That's if the Visians didn't kill them first.

Slowly, Sherlock began backing away, watching the smoke for movement. His lungs were burning, now. His toes curled, digging his shoes into the ground. When he breathed then, it was slow, controlled, and silent. His inhale was just that, though shorter because the ash made him gag. He dug his fingernails into his palms to stop himself from making a sound. If the Visian were out there, he had to stop them from finding him, if they hadn't already. Sherlock knew the smoke would mask his scent. He just had to be silent.

He moved steadily. Backwards. Feet feeling the ground. Each step was carefully placed. Sherlock refused to turn. He watched the smoke like he had before, looking for a flicker to give the Visians' position away. Sherlock swayed a little, as the ground lifted slightly beneath him, but he ignored this and kept going. He couldn't make any sudden movements or the smoke clothing him would give him away.

Sherlock was inhaling another calculated breath when he felt something against his back. He gasped - air hissing into his lungs - then froze. Was it a Visian? No, it was cold. Stone, maybe? But was it the cave? Sherlock didn't risk looking away from the smoke. He knew the Visian would have heard his gasp. He didn't risk breathing again. He felt the rock for an opening, slender fingers moving as quickly as they could. There was nothing.

But...the mouth was lower, wasn't it? Sherlock knelt down. Stretched out his hand.

Just as Sherlock's hand broke through, the smoke curled.

Sherlock felt a shock of blood shoot through him. He dove under the rock, scrambling to get through, right leg flailing to push him to safety. Where the Visians following? There was no way to be sure, but he kept shuffling through - until he couldn't.

He couldn't move. The mouth had suddenly changed shape and he couldn't get through! Which way did he turn again? Panic rose up his throat. His head filled with noise.

Sherlock struggled. The rock pressed down on him, suffocating him. He twisted round in an attempt to get free. Pain electrocuted him from his injured leg and Sherlock yelled in agony. Sweat beaded his face. He gritted his teeth, breathing as slowly and quietly as possible. Had he been heard?

When he looked, Sherlock saw that he was almost through. He reached out, blindly feeling for something to hold and pull himself through. There! A rock crystal. He clung to it, took a deep slow breath. This was going to hurt. But he had no choice unless he wanted to remain trapped there until a Visian clawed him out as one would claw out a muscle from it's shell. He licked his lips. Clenched his jaw. Clung harder to that stone spike. Then he pulled.

Sherlock roared with agony! The stone ground through his bandages, deep into the flesh and bone. He was panting by the time he pulled himself free. He glanced over at his leg - then turned away.

Fire. He had to remind himself. Needed water. He paused to gulp in the air. Clean, safe air! The cave mouth was so low, the smoke could not enter.

Sherlock struggled to his feet. His leg was throbbing like a warning. One Sherlock ignored. Reaching out to the next crystal, he propped himself upright. Then he reached for the next nearest crystal and began the tremendous crawl, using the crystals to carry him. He stopped again not long afterwards. His heart thumping inside his head. Sherlock pressed his head against the stone, desperate to cool down and preserve water.

Water. Right.

Sherlock groaned as he reached for the next stone spike, dragging his leg behind him like a rag doll; very much with the same careless manner for such a precious item. His skin was soaked with sweat. His jaw was aching. He kept going. No other choice. He reached out for the next crystal, throwing his body after his arm. And again. Reached out for the next crystal - this one further away, and he tumbled into it, but clung fast. He body came next. Again. Again. And again. Finally, he reached the pools of water.

Then _Christ, _he thought suddenly - _he couldn't touch the water!_

He stared at the pool. The solution was right there in front of him, and he couldn't see it. Feverish words knocked about inside his head. _Don't touch the water. Fire. Need water. __Hallucinations. Mist. Water droplets suspended in air. Danger. Don't touch. Don't touch! **Don't touch!**_

Sherlock looked down at his hands. They were black and aching. Perhaps he could risk it? No. No. _Stupid! What are you thinking?_ He couldn't carry enough water in hands! There was no time. _Think. Think! **Think!**_

CRACK-AK. The cave mouth exploded and rocks clattered behind him as something big and powerful burst through. Sherlock knew in an instant that a Visian had entered the cave. He had barely five minutes. He weighed his options. No weapons. Dehydration. Injured leg. Invisible enemy. Probability of survival - _18__%_

Then there was the Doctor and Sam. Fire out of control. Dehydration. More Visians on their way. Probability of survival - _17.3%_

_Typical._

Sherlock turned around. He felt himself tilt, but resisted pressing his hand to wall so he wouldn't look weak. He had no clue where the Visian was. Or even if there was only one of them. He looks round, trying to listen for the tiniest sound that would give away the Visian's position. A thumping had started up in his head. He dug his fingernails into his palms until he could feel the blood seeping out.

He only realised he'd been hit when his face broke the pool's surface. Water filled his lungs. It felt like fingernails against his throat. When he opened his eyes, he could see his blood swirling in clouds in front of him.

Just as soon as he was pushed in, he was dragged back out. Sherlock turned and spat out a mouthful of water - where it stopped, suspended in air. Blood and water splattered out inches from his face - revealing a similar shaped face directly in front of him, before it slunk away. The Visian snarled. Confused, Sherlock watched as, before him, the stain of pale red flew from one side of the cave to the other, until it turned and soared away, followed by the thundering off footsteps.

Water. The water affected the Visians too.

_But that doesn't make... _No! There was no time to think about that! He had to tell Sam and the Doctor. Sherlock forced himself to his feet. The cave was spinning. Had the hallucinations started, or was this just his dehydration?

"I can't say I was expecting the location."

His brother's merciless taunting reached his ears. Mycroft was abruptly towering over him. That disinterested, yet somehow always amused, smirk acting as a painted face. He was wearing a suit, as usual. He always did like to dress smart. "But I always dreamed you'd die in a pathetic state such as this."

"Shut up!" Sherlock snarled. He moved to get up but found the cave wall bending away from him, like it was fleeing from him, preventing him from using it to pull him up.

"You're hallucinating, Sherlock, remember?" Mycroft tutted, now behind him. He seemed to be everywhere at once. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and shook himself. "Honestly, you always were so stupid."

"I _have_ to..."

"Oh dear. Your - what do you say - 'enhanced' senses have gone. And so is John. You have nothing left. Although, I suppose you've been enlightened, haven't you? After all that time being bored, you've discovered a fantastic new world right under your nose. The possibilities, the _knowledge, _is endless! It was all a little intimidating at first, wasn't it? But you're better now. You're enjoying this."

Sherlock groaned as he forced himself to stand. His knees buckled underneath him.

Mycroft pressed his lips together. "Well, not _this _per se - but that's okay. I am. Would like a hand?"

"You appal me, brother." Sherlock snarled at the hand offered to him. Mycroft stuck up his nose, curling his fingers back to his chest. Sherlock turned away from him. Mycroft was just as untrustworthy as he would be if he was really there.

"Not sure about John, though." Mycroft droned on, his voice grating against Sherlock's nerves, "The poor fellow had to live with you - a _sociopath_ \- all because he couldn't adjust to civilian life. Although, I'm not really surprised. You'll find that the sound of bullets is much more soothing than all of that...noise." he sneered with disgust.

"They are noisy."

Sherlock's breathe snagged at the new voice.

"Ordinary people. All of them yelling 'I'm right. Me, me, me!'. It's adorable!" Moriarty bent down in front of Sherlock, dark eyes positively glowing, teeth stretched into a grin. "Now, now, Sherlock. Don't be scared."

Sherlock shoved his face away - but his hand just went straight through and into the skull. His eyes went wide. And Moriarty was still smiling! Sherlock growled. He shoved his hand further inside, fist tightening round something hard inside and yanked his arm away. Moriarty looked as though nothing had happened at all - his face unmarked. But Sherlock still felt that warm, hard thing in his hand. Opening his palm, Sherlock stuttered. Inside his hand lay a bullet, warm with blood. It was the bullet Moriarty used to kill himself. Sherlock's head pounded.

"You haven't figured it out yet, have you?" Moriarty said, taking the bullet from him and turning it around in his fingers. "How I did it? How I fooled you? You disappoint me. I thought you knew this game."

"I don't have time for you!" Even as he said it, his eyes were drooping. He head was aching. His leg bleeding. His throat burning.

Moriarty chuckled, "Oh, Sherlock. You don't have time at all."

Sherlock sank into an ocean of darkness.

* * *

As Haley followed the all too familiar pull that guided her through the jungle, while tiny rays of golden red sunlight filtered through the leaves. She pulled the orchid from behind her ear, letting her curls spill forwards, and watched as the sun varnished the white petals. She stared at it for a long time, remembering when Death gave it to her, asking it it was anything like she'd pictured - to which she'd said no; for some reason she imagined it would be bigger, perhaps the size of a tree - until she realised that the bushes were trembling around her with the energy she was making. She forced herself to calm down. She pushed her hair back and tucked the orchid behind her ear again, out of sight, out of mind. Soon the bushes stopped shaking and the jungle fell quiet.

Maybe too quiet. She stopped.

The source of the pull - the force keeping her here - was nearby. She spotted Dean and John a moment later - and then, sketching themselves one by one, she saw the clawed footprints surrounding them.

* * *

**A.N: **I seem to be knocking everyone out *shrugs helplessly* What happened to Cas you may be asking? Well, you'll find out in the next chapter!

**Hallucinations - **I mulled over this mini-plot-point for a while, mostly contemplating whether I should go back and change the writing style whenever the boys started hallucinating. But then I thought, hallucinations feel very real to the victim. So why shouldn't it seem real to our characters?

**Chapter Notes: **The names mentioned at the top are companions of the First Doctor who starred in the episode involving Kembel; 'The Dalek's Master Plan.' Mira is also a planet they visited in this serial, where the Doctor first encountered the Visian. I've recently discovered a reconstruction of the 'The Dalek's Master Plan' serial on Youtube and they're really good so I recommend you check them out if you can. I included this in this chapter because the Doctor has always been haunted by his past in some shape or form. It was also really fun playing around with the characters fears in this chapter. Was I bullying Sherlock a little more than the others here? Meh. He's new to this so I figured it would be harder for him.

**Notice: I'll be posting up a new version of chapter 6 to replace the old one at some point. There be will no plot changes so you're welcome to ignore this, but it will be a lot different mostly because I really don't like how I've written the original - it's too long for a start!**

But anyway, until next time, thanks for reading!


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